


Deductions, Seduction and a First Introduction

by KateLouisaRose



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Multi, Rape/Non-con References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-15 09:39:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 27,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/848042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KateLouisaRose/pseuds/KateLouisaRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's life is empty, loveless, until he meets Sherlock Holmes and finds his explicit website, 'The Science of Seduction'. John needs companionship, could it be possible that he has found it in the arms of a man who sells his own body for sex?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 'Deductions...' has become my most popular and successful fanfiction, and I am in the process of transferring all of my better work onto this site. I will try to upload all 13 chapters as quickly as possible while still ironing out some little grammatical errors.   
> (For future reference, I am aware that the masculine version of 'dominatrix' is in fact 'dominator'. I recognise that the English language has made a decision, but given that it's a stupid-ass decision I've elected to ignore it.)

It had been a long time since John Watson set foot outside of that room. That lonely, dark little flat, a gaping wound of endless empty space and isolation in his broken existence, symbolising everything he had lost in the war, and everything he had yet to lose if he failed to resume his life like nothing had ever happened. A lot had happened.

The tired doctor took a deep, cleansing breath of exhaust fumes and toxic vapours, emitted by the heated sprawl of urban life. Oh, how he'd missed London. He missed her energy, the vibrant, undulating energy which flowed through its citizens like a wonderful, illuminating stimulant.

John took one, unsteady step, followed by another, and began making his way to Regents Park. He knew this city well, and as he limped slowly down these old streets he was dismally aware of how much it had changed. It seemed an age ago that he was a young man here, ready to throw himself into the army with all his courage and passion. The army had eaten him alive, sucked out every bit of hope and youthful exuberance he had possessed and spit out the hollow, empty husk of the John Watson he now was, is, and felt he always would be.

Before he knew it John was at in the park, shuffling down one of the long, winding paths and coming to stand before a bench. He sat dumbly, his mind detached from what his body was doing. He didn't know how long he sat there, watching the children play and the couples strolling past with their hands joined like vices. A dark, looming figure was approaching from the far side of the park, John took little notice of this arrival until he was almost on top of him. The newcomer paused at the corner of the doctor's vision. John's soldier instincts flared; stranger, tall, well built, imposing, staying out of his line of sight, something to hide. Suspicion bubbled beneath his skin, the familiar itch of uncertainty and self-preservation niggling in the back of his mind.

The man, it was certainly a man, sat at the end of the bench, far enough away from John to make him feel less anxious, but not far enough for him to be completely at ease. There was a moment of silence between the two strangers as the other man shifted in his seat and crossed his legs in a nervous twitch, probably common for him, John thought.

"Hello," The man said, his voice a beautifully deep, rumbling baritone which made John's legs turn slightly to jelly before he could gather his composure. John's mouth was dry, his eyes flicking back and forth apprehensively.

"Hello." He replied, inclining his head slightly in the direction of the man.

There was a deliciously low chuckle from the man and a shift towards John, the man's foot nearly brushing the doctor's ankle. John flinched.

"Don't be so shocked." The man muttered, undeterred. "Post Traumatic Stress, right? Afghanistan, or Iraq, judging by the tan, gunshot wound, right - no, left shoulder, psychosomatic limp-"

"Stop it." John blurted as the stranger reeled off the information bluntly, like reciting a damn script. It was impossible that he could know so much about him from just one look.

He felt rather than saw the calm acceptance and gentle nod the stranger gave him.

"Who are you?" John asked, keeping his tone level and indifferent. The other man gave a crooked smile, the corner of his mouth lifting in a wicked yet glorious manner. He extended a pale, long fingered hand towards John and spoke.

"Sherlock Holmes," He purred, too erotic to be decent. John swallowed and turned to face him fully.

His own name he had been about to put forth died on his lips when his gaze fell upon the man. He was exquisite, an ethereal and beautiful human with strong, dominating features. He had full bowed lips almost begging to be kissed and sharp, high cheekbones which jutted sculpturally from his smooth pale skin, so prominent and enchanting they looked as though they could break the surface of the taught alabaster flesh. His eyes, oh, his eyes, they were constantly changing as the sunlight glanced off them, refracting and bending the light so that the irises flashed from blue to green to a stunning silvery grey, framed in thick dark lashes. His hair was dark, thick and curled. John could imagine it, scruffy and unkempt in the mornings, perfect and just asking for someone to run their fingers through it...someone like him...

Sherlock Holmes smiled again, and John's heart leapt uncontrollably in his chest as he fought back the giddy grin he could feel creeping over his carefully controlled expression. He made a slight whimpering sound as he attempted to stutter his name as those inexpressible eyes scrutinized him so intently it was almost pornographic.

"John Watson," He managed at last, grasping the impossibly soft hand which curled around his own fleshy paw in a strangely intimate handshake.

"A pleasure." The other man replied.  _You're telling me mate._ John thought, letting his gaze wander shamelessly over the stranger's lightly defined chest with unabashed admiration.

The other man gently pulled his hand away, and John revelled in the lingering warmth his touch left in his own pink palm.

"I was right then." Sherlock Holmes said, a hint of irrepressible smugness creeping into his tone.

John nodded slowly. "On all accounts," he replied, clenching his hand into a loose fist in an attempt to expel the disarmingly pleasant sensation of the other man's hand in his own.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" The man asked curiously, cocking his head in interest.

"Afghanistan," John said, and the stranger smiled demurely. "Sorry, how did you-"

"That would be telling, and I could never divulge that kind of information quite that freely. You must understand, being a secretive man yourself." The other man cut him off with an apologetic smile.

Sherlock Holmes pulled back the sleeve of an expensive looking woollen coat, which swaddled his body and draped over his knees luxuriously, to glance at the delicate hands of a tarnished gold watch. As he did so, one of his thick eyebrows quirked in consideration and he let out a soft sigh of discontentment.

"Regrettably I have a prior engagement to which I must attend, please excuse my leaving so soon." He said, standing gracefully and nodding at John with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "It was delightful to make your acquaintance,  _Doctor_ Watson."

John flinched. "Doctor?" He repeated dumbly. Sherlock Holmes merely smiled, one hand disappearing momentarily into the deep pocket of his coat. The hand withdrew with a thin slip of card held between two fingers, which was then passed to the unassuming doctor with another heartbreakingly handsome smile.

John stared down at the little square of printed card with confusion, his eyes scanning the information feverishly in his puzzlement.

"My card," the other man clarified, "should you wish to contact me."

John raised a sceptical eyebrow and Sherlock Holmes chuckled lightly. "Failing that, my website printed there should tell you all you wish to know about what I do. I hope we can meet again, you seem a very complex and fascinating individual." The man said.

John frowned slightly, unsure whether to accept the mangled complement or to take offence. "More than you know," he replied darkly, watching as the man walked away down the path. _More than you know._ John sighed, then got up, and hobbled slowly home.

* * *

When John let himself into the flat he felt...changed somehow, like he had stolen an enticing glimpse of an explicit film. He wanted more of this intriguing man, and his fingers were itching to access his laptop so that his desire could be fulfilled. But, first things first.

John ambled to the little kitchen and filled the kettle with water, then he set his stained mug on the counter and waited for the steam to rise from the appliance and the liquid to boil. He stirred the teabag but didn't leave it to permeate the water as he would have done usually, the promise of information on this new man was too much to resist.

As he waited for his laptop to whir into life, John dug in his pocket for the little card. He grasped the offending square and tugged it out so violently in his haste that he knocked the mug of tea resting on his desk. The scalding contents splashed everywhere, narrowly missing his laptop but spilling right into his crotch and over the card he held tightly. John swore loudly and leapt up, dancing a jig around the desk in an effort to cool his burning thighs.

When he had mopped up the tea and changed his trousers the doctor sat back down at his laptop, still holding the card and breathing heavily. The illuminated screen glared at him challengingly, and John took a breath and opened a new tab into Google. He glanced at the card wistfully, but as his eyes scanned the web address he realized with a sinking feeling that the text had been smudged over the end half of the name. All the doctor could make out was 'The Science of ...duction'. John rolled his eyes at his own stupidity. This couldn't be so hard. He pecked away at the keyboard to enter the first discernable half of the website before considering the final word. '...duction' He chewed his lip thoughtfully; there were only a handful words it could be. First he tried 'induction', then 'deduction', but neither search yielded any information save for the odd scientific forum or academic enrolment scheme.

He paused for a moment, gears turning in his thoughts.  _Picture him_. His mind whispered encouragingly. John did so, and suddenly it all became clear. With a wicked smile John's eager fingers returned to the keys, tapping into the search bar 'The Science of Seduction'

The links loaded quickly and John clicked on the most readily available, holding his breath as the little hourglass turned sluggishly. Then he was there, Sherlock Holmes's webpage, large images flashing up suddenly and bombarding his senses. Only when he managed to focus on the pictures did John finally gasp a breath of surprise and arousal.

The images featured the very same man he had been conversing with pleasantly only hours before, displayed for all to see in various compromising and deviant positions. The doctor gave a soft, desperate moan as his eyes roamed over the wonderful expanse of flesh exhibited before him. Sherlock Holmes lay depravedly, draped over a velvet armchair, his pale limbs stretched across the arms and one leg raised over the back, a luxurious cut of black lace concealing his crotch and his fingers steepled under his chin, a glorious half smile lifting his perfect mouth.

As John skipped through the promotional photos his heart began hammering against his chest excitedly. Every picture was more intense and more deliciously arousing than the last. John's face flushed as he laid eyes on the other man, back curved impossibly over the armrest and legs spread erotically in invitation. His head was thrown back, his lips parted slightly in ecstasy. John realized with a jolt that his body was responding unsurprisingly from staring at these photographs, he was half hard in his pants and sweating with unrepressed lust. He hadn't felt like this for anyone in a long time, but he couldn't take his eyes off Sherlock Holmes, it was entirely unlike him to feel this intensely turned on for anyone, let alone another man.

The final photograph in the selection awakened something in him he hadn't known he missed before now. John groaned helplessly and his hand strayed to the front of his jeans to palm his now straining erection in search for his release. Sherlock Holmes was straddling the chair, his muscled thighs gripping the velvet and his pert buttocks clenching teasingly. The photograph was taken from the front of the chair, and the subject faced his body away from the camera with his head thrown over his shoulder. The expression on the man's face was one of dominance, and there was a teasing glint in his eye which made John's cock twitch wantonly. The doctor began rubbing himself absently through his trousers, scanning the photograph feverishly, aware that his breathing had grown heavy and his palms were sweating again.

There was a little box of information concerning Sherlock Holmes's trade, his fees, and contact information on the left side of the photograph. John stopped his manic pleasuring and took a breath, reading the text slowly in an effort to calm himself. He had never been much interested in self pleasuring, and to do such an immature thing now at his age was beyond his normal tendencies. He resigned himself to thinking about Margaret Thatcher in her underwear in an effort to become flaccid and focus clearly on the details concerning his recent acquaintance. His attempts at gathering control of his body were in vain as he read the little box through a few times.

' _The illustrious Sherlock Holmes is delighted to provide sensual punishment for your own pleasurable entertainment. Prices on request, your innermost desired indulged and your most secret fantasies exposed and enacted. Mr Holmes expects clients at his home and will receive you upon appointment, care of his personal assistant Miss Molly Hooper. Enquire 221B Baker Street, London, England. Confidentiality obtained, security and privacy provided, comfort...optional._ _ **Know when you are beaten.**_ _'_

This information was followed by a list of contacts, including a phone number, a repeat of the location, and an email address. John stared long and hard at the email address. He could do this. There was no question that he needed to see this man again, and as soon as humanly possible. He was still uncomfortably hard and aching for his release, but he refused to indulge his body's primitive needs before he did something about his lustful feelings towards Sherlock Holmes. He couldn't quite believe he was doing this, him, the respected Doctor John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, contacting a prostitute. This man was a male prostitute, catering to the higher classes indeed, but a sex worker none the less. John groaned, why was he feeling these things, these raw, animalistic impulses, after so long? He was lonely, in need of companionship, love, intimacy. He craved closeness with another human being more than anything. And so, it was with this epiphany, John opened his email and began to type the address.

He wrote formally in his message, trying to dispel the sense of uncleanliness he felt at contacting and arranging to meet with a prostitute. ' _I am interested in arranging an appointment with Mr Holmes at his earliest convenience.'_ John sat thoughtfully for a moment, mulling over his possible next sentence.  _'No specific requests.'_ He finished, and typed his name, clicking the send button.

John sighed, and then he shut his computer down and walked, somewhat uncomfortably, to the small bathroom for a very, very long shower, anticipating the response with nervous excitement. He didn't have long to wait...


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, John threw the covers off his bed and vaulted over the mattress in his haste to access his computer. A new found youthful exuberance was singing through his veins at the possibility of meeting Sherlock Holmes again, and the time it took to boot up his laptop again was almost too painful to bear.

He opened his email inbox immediately, drumming his fingers on the desk with impatience. Loading...loading...loading...

Nothing.

Not a single message, not one. John's heart plummeted. He had been waiting for a reply for what felt like forever, and now the stupid bastard wasn't even going to email him back! John growled in his frustration and kicked the table leg childishly.

* * *

The rest of the day was spent watching the hours tick by and staring fixedly at the blank inbox of his email. By half four John was just about to lose what little was left of his sanity, and with a final laborious heave, he pulled himself into standing and staggered to the door. He needed to get outside; needed to clear his head and stretch his aching legs.

He took a short lap around the lower half of the park again, passing the bench he had sat on yesterday and glaring at it accusingly. John half expected to catch a glimpse of the mysterious stranger he had met the day before, skulking around the green searching for his prey in that billowing greatcoat.

By the time he was on the home stretch, the doctor had convinced himself whole-heartedly that it was pathetic to keep his hopes up. He resolved to check his inbox one final time before resigning himself to a life of loneliness and abstinence of sexual pleasure. He would be that loopy old man who lived at the end of the road and was always tending to his rose bushes and muttering nonsensically about 'The War'.

As John's thoughts strayed to things like how good he would look in a flat cap, and how many cats he should keep, he inserted the key into his front door and shuffled inside.  _'No, keeping lots of cats is for women, what do men do when they go completely bonkers I wonder...is there some kind of animal we should keep to comfort us in our insanity?'_ John's mind babbled contentedly to itself while he threw his coat onto the little bed and plonked himself down at his computer for a final time. He clicked open the inbox and closed his eyes pleadingly, he really didn't want to be that nuts old man, not yet anyway.

He took a breath and opened his eyes...

**Inbox: 1 Message**

**From:**  sherlock_holmes.email@virgin.net

**Subject:** -

**Message:**

221B Baker Street

Come at once if convenient.

If inconvenient, come anyway.

-SH

John's heart leapt into his throat and he choked on his own breath as he tried to comprehend what had just happened. He had an appointment...with Sherlock Holmes...at his house...right now. He stumbled up and tripped over the chair leg, throwing himself to the other side of the room and pulling on his coat. With one last, affirming look at his laptop screen, John grabbed his wallet and darted out of his door and out onto the street, hollering for a taxi and launching himself into the back as it pulled up, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes sat in his chair, the violin resting in his lap and his long pale fingers plucking at the strings absently. He was an interesting one, that John Watson, he reflected. Sherlock looked forward to meeting him again very soon indeed.

He didn't usually handle his own appointments; he had Molly to do all that for him. Ah, Molly, dear, sweet Molly. Sherlock often wondered how she had got herself into this business. She was so loyal, so willing. Sherlock trusted her entirely, and he had never once tried intentionally to seduce her. She was pretty, in a common sort of way, but he didn't want to drive her off when she did such a good job organising his clients and finances. He could hear her shuffling about in her office downstairs, organising paperwork and answering the phone. She never showed any embarrassment in his trade, never complained when he asked her to polish the handcuffs or change the wet sheets. His room of work was soundproof and secure, but Sherlock knew that she could still distinctly hear the strangled cries of release and the desperate begging which drifted down from upstairs where her employer was at work.

Sherlock did not enjoy his work. He catered to the whims of the pathetic and took his clothes off for money. It made him pity them, the small, insignificant little people. He indulged them, played out their sick, twisted little fantasies with indifference and perseverance. It mattered little to him what they did with his body. Sherlock possessed the unnatural ability to detach his mind completely from every sensation and emotion his body was experiencing which should be connected with sexual exploration. It meant nothing when these people touched him, took advantage of his well formed muscles and unblemished skin. Beauty was just a concept to Sherlock, and he found work in the fact that others perceived him to be possessing of this trait. When his clients wanted to be dominant, he allowed them, and when they wanted him to make them beg, he did so. Pleasure was an exact science. Sherlock could manipulate people's emotions and make them scream louder than their own partners ever could. He could master their bodies and he knew exactly what sent every client over the edge. This was not love-making; this was sex, plain and simple. Sherlock had studied it, practised and refined his art until he was good enough to earn money from other people's desires. This was the only thing he had ever been good at. He hated his job, but there was no other way. These people made his living, and he detested each and every one of them.

Business was unusually slow for him of late, to the extent that Sherlock had been obligated to generate interest in his work by stalking the streets of London in search of lonely looking individuals with low self esteem. That's how he had come across John. He was a strong, courageous man whom the dominatrix had admired for some time from a distance before approaching. Sherlock could spot a potential customer from a mile off, and John seemed perfect. He went through the motions, making small, inconsequential deductions about the man's life and work, smiling in the right kind of way, allowing the sunlight to glance off his strong, angular features, and planting that seed of intrigue in the doctor's mind which would compel him to seek Sherlock's company once more.

But John, he was special. There was something about him that he couldn't quite figure out, a rare occurrence for him, to be unable to read someone. Sherlock related to his isolation. John was stuck in this world he didn't belong in, driftwood caught in an unsurpassable current, swayed by an ever changing tide.

It was for this reason that he insisted on answering the doctor's correspondent, relieving Molly of her duty and dealing with this one enquiry so that he may be the one to make contact with his potential client. Miss Hooper had been wary of allowing her employer access to his own appointments. Sherlock knew why, he had the unfortunate habit of insulting people without meaning to, which Molly had quickly established was a very good reason to allow her to take over this part of his business. For this though, Sherlock had been insistent, and refused to allow Molly anywhere near to him as he rattled off a blunt reply. It was most uncharacteristic of him to take such an interest in his own affairs, Molly observed, but she thought nothing of it, and turned her attention to cleaning the assortment of leather collars and heavy straitjackets which the previous client had required.

The dominatrix sighed in boredom. He stood gracefully and laid his violin in the armchair, straightening his suit jacket and fluffing his hair in the mirror. It was important to make the right kind of first impression. "Molly!" He called loudly, turning his head and considering his appearance critically. He heard light footsteps tapping up the seventeen steps to his flat form the ground floor, and his assistant entered the room looking a little flushed from the exertion.

"Yes, Sir?" She enquired, clasping some files tightly to her modest breasts and smiling endearingly. Sherlock was very fond of her, and counted his secretary as possibly his closest thing he had to a friend. The dominatrix gave her a gentle smile and twirled briefly on the spot to allow her a full view of his attire.

"How do I look?" He asked, brushing some imaginary lint from his lapel.

"Very dashing, Mr Holmes." She replied dutifully, stepping forward to smooth a stray curl into its proper place and touch his cheek briefly. "Are you expecting your next client presently?" She said as he moved away.

"Yes, I expect so Molly." he replied, turning back to the mirror and scrutinizing his reflection, watching his assistant in the glass. "Do show him up immediately when he arrives." Sherlock directed.

"Very good Sir," Molly nodded, before crossing the room to the door.

"Oh, and Molly?"

"Yes Sir?"

"You look very pretty today, if I might be so bold." Sherlock added, smiling again and giving her an appraising look. Molly blushed, looking down at her simple blue blouse and running her fingers over the material.

"Thank you," she said quietly, "will that be all, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock nodded politely "That will be all, Miss Hooper."

* * *

John got out of the cab outside 221B Baker Street and paid the driver carelessly. He approached the door and buzzed the intercom for the ground floor office. A timid female voice answered.

"Holmes residence, how may I help?"

John swallowed thickly and ran his fingers through his sandy hair nervously.

"Uh, John Watson, I have an appointment." He managed, shifting his weight from one foot to the other in his impatience. In his fleeting departure from his flat, John had forgotten his cane, but he barely noticed its absence in light of the thrilling events which were about to unfold.

"One moment please," The woman replied, and John was cut off.

Some moments later the door opened, and a young woman stood on the threshold carrying a manila folder under one arm and expressing a bright and friendly smile.

"Right this way sir, Mr Holmes is expecting you." She said, turning and leading the way up the stairs to a plain wood door. John observed little of his surroundings as he passed the office. It had a functional, professional atmosphere, and there wasn't much to be deducted from the sparse furniture and few paintings and photographs on the walls.

The woman knocked three times on the door and motioned for John to enter. "Mr Watson here to see you," She told what looked like empty space from where John was standing.

John entered the flat and the door was shut behind him as the woman left him alone with his new acquaintance. The occupant of the flat stood in the centre of the room with his hands behind his back and an inviting smile on his face. "Ah, Doctor, I was hoping you would receive my reply." Sherlock Holmes intoned in his rumbling tenor. John stared at him dumbly, taking in his lean form and his impossible height.

"Mr Holmes," John replied, smiling a little shakily and biting his lip.

"Sherlock, please. I am told you have no formal requests regarding my services?" Sherlock asked pleasantly, moving forwards and helping John off with his coat, his fingertips trailing a burning heat along the back of the other man's neck. Upon impulse, Sherlock leaned forwards and John felt the soft, delicious pressure of his lips brushing his clavicle. He shivered and turned to face the dominatrix. Sherlock was smiling ruefully and moving a little closer so that their chests were almost touching.

"No, I suppose not." John said, controlling his voice successfully and raising his head to meet the other man's seductive gaze. "Look, all I want is a good, honest shag" The doctor said firmly.  _Well, that was a new one._ Sherlock chuckled, his chest vibrating against John's in his good humour.

"Honest?" He enquired, eyeing the wad of money gripped tightly in John's fist by his side.

The doctor faltered, and then tried to hand the money over to the man. Sherlock inclined his head towards a small side table, gesturing for John to deposit the money there. John nodded, laying the bills out on the surface and turning back towards the dominatrix. Sherlock didn't count the fee like he usually did; instead he kept his gaze fixed on John, analyzing pressure points and sensitive areas, pain threshold and stamina.

"Right this way, John." He said, steering the bewildered doctor towards his room with a hand on the small of his back.

The bedroom was comfortably furnished and lit with a warm, intimate glow. John found himself feeling more at ease at the sight of such domesticity amidst the maddening realisation of what he was doing. "Relax," Sherlock purred from somewhere close behind him, a tender hand caressing John's behind soothingly. "I'll make you comfortable."

John quivered at his touch, feeling the other man pressing himself into his back and nosing his hair gently. Sherlock wandered round to his front, smiling alluringly and raising a hand to brush over John's cheek. He leant in slowly, feeling the doctor's breath hot on his skin...


	3. Chapter 3

John stepped forwards and kissed Sherlock suddenly, and with more force than he intended. The other man stumbled back a step, huffing a laugh and swooping back in eagerly to capture the doctor's lips once more. The smaller man let out a soft little moan as the dominatrix ran his hands over his body, fingers creeping beneath his jumper and skimming the flushed skin beneath. John reached up and tangled his fingers in those glorious soft curls, twisting them and tugging lightly, dragging his nails over Sherlock's scalp, earning himself a sharp nip on his lower lip from the other man. The taller man stopped kissing him and began to lift John's jumper over his head, ducking his head down and seeking out the strip of perfect pink skin as he undressed the doctor.

John sighed in release as Sherlock began planting light kisses along his abdomen and stomach, stroking the delicate skin above his boxers briefly before standing up again and helping the doctor off with his jumper and shirt. John smiled shyly, leaning forwards and kissing the other man again, his bare chest pressing against the expensive shirt Sherlock wore.

Sherlock suppressed a frown, this was strange, novel. John was taking his time, relishing every little contact their bodies made. The dominatrix wasn't used to such gentility and care when dealing with a client. Usually people were much too eager to get into his pants to bother with foreplay.

He marvelled at the sweet, tender way the doctor kissed him and touched his body, slowly unbuttoning his shirt and pushing the jacket off Sherlock's shoulders before letting the sleek, silky shirt fall to the floor. Sherlock leant in again and pressed his lips to John's jaw, moving up to suck the sensitive skin just behind his ear before whispering to him.

"Tell me what you want  _Doctor,_ " the man breathed temptingly. "I'm all yours, tell me what you  _need._ "

John's legs buckled at that last word, the way Sherlock made it sound so  _dirty_. He could feel himself becoming hard, and he strained against the taller man, breathing heavily and burying his face in the hollow of his throat, biting gently into the pale flesh and breathing the heady scent of masculine cologne.

The dominatrix ran his hands over the doctor's back, skimming his shoulder blades... _wounded._

Sherlock tried not to show his surprise at the ugly mangled scar tissue knotted at his client's shoulder. He continued his slow, measured caress of the smaller man's back, but John noticed the hesitation and pulled apart from him. He stared at Sherlock with doleful eyes, his gaze raking over the other man's face for any sign of disgust or repulsion, but found only a kind indifference.

Sherlock had lain with injured people before; amputees, burn victims, the terminally ill. Each of them had been searching for some excitement, exhilaration, to recover lost confidence or to simply feel wanted again. He treated every client with equal care and attention. He would show them love again, some compassion, restoring their faith with patience and knowledge. Everyone was different, with requirements and fluctuating desires, Sherlock catered to them all. They paid him, which was all that mattered.

John still looked uncertain, lost. Sherlock dipped his head and kissed the scar at its most sensitive point, flicking his tongue and tasting the other man's skin. John tasted of green tea and peppermint shower gel; a wonderful, dizzying combination when mixed with the salty residue of sweat on his body. He let his hands wander down, resting momentarily on John's belt before unbuckling it and tugging it through the loops. The doctor watched Sherlock undress him curiously as the other man's nimble fingers worked at his zipper to free his now straining erection. He sighed deeply, digging his nails into Sherlock's hips and pulling him closer, desperate for contact. Sherlock smiled, now this was more like it, John was becoming more instinctual in his actions, working with raw, animalistic desire. The dominatrix was aware that he had remained flaccid, probably time to do something about that.

Sherlock had many tricks to get himself hard, he was about to employ one of them when John pushed forwards and thrust sharply against Sherlock, slipping his leg in between the other man's thighs and humping slowly, enjoying the brief friction.

The dominatrix gasped as his sudden erection pushed demandingly against John's leg, this had never happened before; he had never been able to become aroused by a client without taking control of his body's functions first. Sherlock groaned softly as John rutted against him, reaching out and pushing the other man's hips down onto his erection and thrusting leisurely.

No, he had to stop. The whole reason he had entered into this profession was because he  _didn't_ care, didn't get any pleasure from fucking these dull people, other than that which the resultant money could bring. This was completely new, uncharted territory. Sherlock wanted to stop feeling such emotion and lust towards his new client, but as John undid the taller man's trousers and slipped them over his hips, Sherlock found that he was past caring.

The dominatrix began breathing heavily, moving his hands to relieve the other man of his trousers, shoving them none too gently past his aching member. John sucked a breath through his teeth and stepped out of his jeans which were pooled around his ankles, Sherlock did the same. They stood close to each other, breathing heavily, John in his boxers and Sherlock in a pair of tight silk briefs.  _Now that's just unfair._ John thought bitterly, eyeing the other man's cock shamelessly where it was outlined by the fabric.

Sherlock gave a lop-sided smile and stepped into John's arms, kissing him feverishly all along his throat and chest before reaching his lips. John moaned into the kiss, tracing Sherlock's tongue with his and revelling in the heat of the other man's mouth as it moved against his own.

Sherlock walked him slowly backwards, still kissing him fervently and moving his hands to cup John's arse and give it a playful squeeze. The doctor shivered in pleasure and returned the favour, his fingers slipping beneath the waistband of those delicate briefs and kneading the glorious shapely curve of Sherlock's buttocks. The dominatrix growled as the sensation shot straight to his cock. He could already feel the blood vacating his brain and rushing to the more stimulated parts of his anatomy.

John collapsed onto the bed with Sherlock on top of him, grinding their erections together obsessively. John plucked at one of the last bits of thin material separating their bodies and tugged it over Sherlock's hips, eliciting a gasp as the briefs rubbed over his erection. The other man did the same with John's boxers, helping him shimmy out of them and kick them away to the floor.

The dark haired man paused for breath, observing his client stretched out before him, his pupils dilated and his breathing ragged. Sherlock realised that he must look the same way, and he tried valiantly to gather his more professional composure before continuing. He needed to be in control again, to feel like every rule he had ever made about boundaries concerning his work was not dissolving before his eyes as John writhed beneath him, practically mad with lust and gagging for it.

Since John had not clarified what he wanted Sherlock to do, the dominatrix leant forwards where he was straddling John's thighs, pressing their achingly hard members against each other to murmur his question.

"Since you did not answer my previous question, John, what is it you would like me to do?" he rumbled seductively. John swallowed, the sensation of the other man naked and pressed against him almost too much to bear.

"F-f-fuck me" He croaked hoarsely, running his hands over Sherlock's body and between his thighs temptingly.

"Tsk tsk, such a  _dirty_  mouth." Sherlock scolded, trying desperately to ignore the impatient throb of desire he felt between his legs as the doctor spoke those deliciously depraved words.

Sherlock gave John a quick, soft kiss on his lips before leaning back on his heels and separating them briefly. He admired the sight before him as he rested lightly on John's knees, resisting the urge to touch the doctor intimately where he lay with his cock exposed, a tear of pre-cum beading at the head and sweat glistening between his thighs.

Sherlock had honestly never felt this turned on in his life. This wasn't supposed to be like this. Sherlock was meant to be faking the quickening of his breath and the pounding of his heart. Seeing his client like this, horny and helpless beneath him, should make him feel disgusted and ashamed. Now he gave a quiet breathy grunt and stroked his fingers along John's inner thigh, smiling and relishing the look of complete awe and passion reflected in the other man's eyes.

" _Please,_ " John moaned, bucking his hips upwards and fidgeting under the dominatrix's analytical gaze.

One last look at John and Sherlock knew that he just had to have this man inside him. He tried not to use words to communicate what he wanted, moving John into the middle of the bed and shuffling his hips until they were slotted together intimately.

John tried to keep it together as Sherlock wriggled up his body and settled himself between his legs. When Sherlock offered two long fingers to him to suck, John complied gladly, licking up and down their length lustily and taking each one into his mouth in turn.

_Fuck._  Sherlock thought as John practically gave his fingers a blowjob. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. He withdrew the digits slowly, John's saliva glistening in the low lighting.

John watched helplessly as Sherlock took the fingers away and prepared himself for John.

Sherlock reached around and felt the tight muscle of his own opening, teasing the rim with the two wet fingers before pressing them in deeper. The dominatrix moaned loudly as he slowly fucked himself with his fingers, teasing his opening and relaxing so that it wouldn't hurt when he took John. After all this time, it really shouldn't be painful when he allowed his clients to have him that way, but he had always been rather tight, and if he didn't prepare his body beforehand Sherlock could cause himself serious injury.

When Sherlock withdrew he gave a little shuddering gasp and opened his eyes to look at John, who was clutching at the sheets and biting his lip hard in an effort to remember to breathe. Sherlock reached down and stroked his face tentatively, watching the other man's eyes flutter open. John's chest heaved and he groaned, Sherlock could feel the throbbing between his legs and he shifted back so that his arse brushed the tip of John's cock.

John watched as Sherlock raised himself up onto his heels so that no part of him was touching the other man. Sherlock braced his hands on the bed behind him, making intense eye contact with John as he lowered his body down over John's raging erection...

John moaned loudly as Sherlock pressed the shorter man's cock against his opening and used his hand to guide John inside him. They maintained their intimate gaze as Sherlock impaled himself on John's cock, burying every inch deep into his body and closing his eyes at the wonderful sensation.

The dominatrix leaned away and stretched his body indulgently, throwing his head back and groaning long and loud as he sunk lower, taking John completely inside him.

It wasn't possible to be this bloody sexy, John thought as he spread his legs wide to give the other man room to move. It was inexplicable, the noises Sherlock made and the way he looked at him with complete abandon.

Sherlock shouldn't have done this, let himself open up to this man and become so involved in his work. But this just felt so  _good._  He was aware that he was moaning incoherently and trembling a little at the way John was moving inside him, shifting his body and letting Sherlock slide slowly along his length. Every nerve tingled with pleasure, his senses sharp and singing with delight as he moved back and began to slowly rock on his heels, pulling out slightly before sinking back down on John's beautiful cock. Now he wondered why he had not done this before, the sensation was so insanely pleasurable, more intense and perfect than he could have imagined. Sherlock had always been able to shut it out, everything he felt while dealing with a client. He was able to numb his body and allow his mind to drift so that he didn't have to connect with what was happening, but this was better than anything he had ever felt before and he absolutely did not want it to stop.

John thrust upwards sharply, needing more friction between them as Sherlock rode him slowly and maddeningly, his jaw slack and his bowed lips parted in absolute ecstasy. The second John rammed into him Sherlock cried out and his hips bucked unconsciously as the doctor hit that sweet spot inside him. The couple began to find their rhythm, Sherlock lifting his hips and John rising to meet him before they sank down lower, each time more rough and desperate than the last. John moved his knees up to brace them against Sherlock's back, the added tension only increasing their enjoyment as the other man leant into him and John pulled out of him further before sliding back into Sherlock's body with a shudder of pleasure.

The doctor ran his soft hands over Sherlock's thighs as they picked up speed, moving in and out of each other with distressing accuracy. John stroked the inside of the other man's legs and skimmed purposefully across the delicate skin so close to his cock, and the dominatrix gave a strangled gasp as the other man stroked along his erection delicately, as though he feared he would hurt him.

This was what he had been searching for, this is what he needed. John wanted to somehow be closer to Sherlock, to touch him more, feel even more conceivable pleasure in their intimacy, and just hold this perfect stranger as they made love.

Before he could stop himself, Sherlock was moaning John's name, his whole body aching with pleasure. The only thing that seemed to matter was the man pushing inside him with such urgency and intimate desire that all Sherlock wanted to do was please him and take every inch of him again and again until he bled. Such vulnerability was unknown to the dominatrix, and he found that he would happily lie here all day and have John fuck him like this if it meant that he would never have to sleep with anyone else. Nobody could compare to John now, nobody could make him feel this way and evoke such sensual stimulation in his normally impassive body.

John's hands were sliding around to clutch his arse again lustily, the swells and undulations of their bodies consuming him. The doctor could feel Sherlock tightening around him, begging him for his release. John was close, so close to his climax now, the muscles in his abdomen contracting as he tried desperately to hold on for longer, long enough to see this graceful man canting his hips against him torn apart by their combined orgasm.

There was a part of John, however small, which remained pressing at his temples, fighting to be heard, which whispered that it wasn't real. That body submitting to him, that wet, elegant cock throbbing with unreleased pressure, and that face, that stunning, indescribable face, caught in a rictus of unutterable joy - it was all a lie.

_He's paid to look like that, Johnny boy._ The voice hissed maliciously.  _You don't mean anything to him. That expression? It's forced, worthless. You only believe what you want to believe, John, and soon it's all going to end, and then what will you do? He's an actor, a paid whore. Such a pretty face, such a rewarding body, you think he wouldn't use them against you? You're no better than him Johnny, you're as stupid and naive as the other sad old fuckers and you played right into his hands didn't you? Pathetic man, once a brave soldier, but if only they could see you now, screwing a prostitute like the desperate, needy man you know you are. You don't want this, the sex is real, the pleasure is as intense and as stimulating as it ever will be, but you want a companion, a soul mate. You want a relationship John, and the one person you trust with the most intimate part of yourself is him. He's going to grow bored, and then you'll be right back where you started. Sex will never be more spectacular than it is with him right now, and he doesn't even like you._

_You REPEL him._

John groaned, a deep, guttural sound which reverberated through his body, every synapse aching for release. With one last, helpless look at Sherlock, grinding himself against John and moaning his name erotically, the doctor finally let go.

Sherlock felt John convulse beneath him as the swell of his orgasm gripped him in its sweaty embrace. His body was suddenly filled with the other man's release and he felt John soften inside him as he came. The dominatrix moved slightly, the semen leaking out of his opening around John's cock, and gave a soft whimper. John sighed deeply, arching into Sherlock again and preparing to pull out but Sherlock reached down to hold him in place, curving his spine and pulling John's body to him and placing sweet, tender kisses across the other man's stomach and chest.

The doctor breathed heavily as the dominatrix worshipped his body, closing his eyes as the other man began stroking gentle hands along his ribs and brushing his nose from his belly button to the hollow of his throat lovingly. John hummed quietly to himself as Sherlock kissed his jaw with some effort, considering their bodies were still joined closely.

As slowly as he could manage, Sherlock began to let John withdraw, relishing every sensation as the doctor's limp member pulled out of him, lubricated with his previous release. He sighed, long and sensually as John finally separated their bodies.

Sherlock rolled off and lay uncomfortably next to the other man. He pulled up the sheet from the end of his bed quickly to hide his shame. The dominatrix was still painfully hard and he needed to find his relief soon. He was used to holding out for a long time, withholding his impulses until he was sure his client was fully satisfied. Sherlock groaned as he felt his cock twinge as he turned over to lie on his back.

John was spread eagled beside him, his chest heaving with their recent activity. The doctor looked over at the other man and noticed with embarrassment that Sherlock was shifting his legs and tenting the sheet over his crotch so that his erection wouldn't be as obvious. The smaller man frowned, feeling his heartbeat returning to normal, and inched over the empty space so that his heated skin brushed that belonging to the other man. Sherlock flinched as he felt John move closer to him. A gentle, tentative hand trailed along his chest and wandered lower...he fought back a load groan as John stroked over his hardened member and ran a finger along his length teasingly. The doctor kissed a path from Sherlock's throat to his abdomen, disappearing beneath the sheet with a wink. The dominatrix didn't bother to restrain the cry of pleasure which bubbled over his lips as John took him in his mouth and began doing the most indescribable things with his tongue.

Sherlock groaned deep in his throat as John slid his length in and out of his hot, wet mouth. The doctor dragged his bottom teeth lightly over the other man's cock, grazing the delicate skin and flicking his tongue over the head. Sherlock hissed and pushed forwards, unintentionally choking the smaller man. John gagged a little but didn't stop, making small swallowing motions with his throat to stimulate his partner.

Sherlock felt a stab of guilt, he wasn't used to losing control like this, but  _ooh jeezus..._ his train of thought was cut short when John began running a finger gently between the cleft of his buttocks and skimming his entrance, trailing lightly over his balls before repeating the motion.

Long, skeletal fingers were threading their way into John's hair, massaging his scalp, nails dragging through the sandy waves before digging in as the other man was overcome with another crippling wave of pleasure. The dominatrix was gasping and writhing as John went down on him, every nerve tingling with sensation and desire. He felt the sheet lift from his back as Sherlock spread his legs wider, inviting him to continue this wonderful onslaught of bliss.

Gradually Sherlock could feel the tension building in his abdomen, his muscles tightening and his body aching with need. He came with a jolt and a strangled cry of John's name. It was the best and most real orgasm he had ever had, and the man simply lay there in the perfection of the moment.

John swallowed him down and closed his eyes; he hadn't done that in years. He crept out from under the covers to see the dominatrix with his face buried in the crook of his arm and his eyes tightly shut. The smaller man dragged himself up from Sherlock's general crotch area, his own flaccid cock rubbing against the other man's as he twined their naked bodies together intimately.

Sherlock sighed contentedly as John resurfaced and lay down over him, face to face. He slit one eye open and watched as his client wriggled around on top of him, trying to get comfortable. Such was the height difference that their bodies were no longer touching as closely as before, but John slipped his leg between Sherlock's thighs and tucked his head into the crook of his neck wordlessly, his arms wrapped around the other man.

The dominatrix had never had to deal with his clients taking such liberties before; usually it was more a 'get in get off get out' kind of fix. Sherlock would have sex with them and they would leave, all embarrassed thanks and whispered promises, and he would be left with the wad of cash and the lingering smell of dirty, passionless sex clinging to his abused body.

Sherlock eyed the man curled around him, and he smiled. Everything was so clear and new, and he wondered what other brilliant experiences this man could offer him. The sex was...beautiful, in a way. He had never let himself become so emotionally involved before, but  _wow._ It was raw and tender and painful and earth shatteringly perfect all at the same time.

_Lovemaking_...Sherlock thought wistfully as they basked in the afterglow, _such a peculiar expression._ He thought about the other people, his work, their senseless rutting and the painful bruises and wounds they left behind from their time with him...and then he thought of John, sweet, gentle, passionate John, who had treated him with such fragility and care and  _love._

Love.

Was that it? The thing he had thought could never exist... love. He stared down at the man's sleeping form as he shifted against him and brushed his soft hair against his cheek.  _John smells good._  He thought contemplatively.  _I like John very much._

Unconsciously the dominatrix found himself lifting his arms and placing them over John's warm, tanned body, stroking his golden skin and breathing his scent. John moved slightly and Sherlock could feel him smiling against his neck, and he tightened his hold.

With John it could be possible that lovemaking did exist, that tender, emotional connection with someone may be possible.  _You just have to find the right someone..._

Sherlock closed his eyes too and pressed a kiss to John's temple impulsively. Could it be that he, Sherlock Holmes, could at last be feeling something towards another human, and was it even remotely possible that the feeling was...love?

_Bollocks._

Sherlock thought eloquently before he fell asleep in John's arms.

_This is so inconvenient._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, feedback is much appreciated!


	4. Chapter 4

Molly Hooper sat at her little desk in her office downstairs, her fingers flying over the keys of her computer and her light hazel eyes trained fixedly on the pixelated screen. Her hand paused momentarily over the play button of her iPod and she listened intently for any signs of movement in the flat where her employer was at work. The noises had stopped a while ago, and while they were going on Molly had been busy singing along to Florence and the Machine at full volume in an effort to block out the cries and erotic moans of her boss performing at his best.

It wasn't that Molly harboured any feelings akin to love for Sherlock Holmes, but when his sensual voice carried down the seventeen stairs to her little pokey work space she preferred to tune it out. She didn't have any problem with what she knew was going on, she didn't mind her job, and she quite liked looking after Sherlock sometimes, although some things are best left to the imagination. She most certainly had  _not_  catalogued all of his sex noises into groups when she was bored and filed them away in the recesses of her mind for further study...

There was something peculiar about her employer's behaviour lately. He had been very keen to handle the appointment of that John Watson, even though Molly had insisted that she could take care of it. When she had opened the flat door to show the client in earlier this afternoon, Sherlock had appraised the man with a strange kind of longing in his eyes. It was unlike anything she had seen in him before, and Molly had been confused to say the least when she accidentally heard the strangled cry of " _John!"_  echoing through 221B as the man reached climax. Molly admired his acting skills immensely, and she had been impressed on numerous occasions before when Sherlock could imitate real affection and passion for these people who required his services, and yet, there was something different about the way he said John's name, a weird little upwards inflection like he was questioning himself. Sherlock had never even bothered to learn his client's names before unless they requested it, what was special about this one which made him cry it so passionately and, dare she think it,  _realistically_?

It had been silent upstairs for a long time now. Molly frowned, the clock on her desk said 8pm, much later than she had expected. She stood up slowly, still listening intently in case she was mistaken, but she was certain she hadn't heard the last client leave, and there hadn't been any movement in a long time. She stepped out from behind her desk and made her way to the stairs. Molly crossed the living room of the comfortable flat and paused at the door to the bedroom. She pressed her ear against the wood and listened one last time before turning the knob slowly...

What she saw when she opened that door shocked her to her core. Sherlock lay in the large bed, the sheet just hiding his naked body, with the man, John Watson, curled around him. The couple slept peacefully, their arms wrapped around each other. John had his head tucked under Sherlock's chin, and the dominatrix was smiling faintly in his sleep. Molly froze as she stared at them, dumbfounded. Sherlock shifted in an effort to get comfortable, and one pale hand slid purposefully down John's back and came to rest on his arse. The other man made a pleased little noise and cuddled even closer to her employer as Sherlock began to caress his skin shamelessly.

This was too bizarre for words, Molly cleared her throat softly, unsure whether she wanted to wake them or let them sleep. Before she could make any sort of decision, John's eyelids began to flutter as he struggled blearily into half wakefulness. Molly flinched instinctively, being caught snooping while Sherlock was with a client could cause her boss to lose the money he had made already, and she backed away to the door as quickly and quietly as she was able. The smaller man closed his eyes again, golden lashes catching the moonlight which was streaming through the window. The assistant relaxed, resolving to leave them for the night and return to wake them in the morning. Her work was completed, and she had no reason to stay and observe the pair as they slept soundly in each other's arms.

* * *

John woke early the next day, but he didn't open his eyes right away, not when there was a simply fantastic pair of lips resting against his cheek. The doctor smiled slowly, his brain still sleep muddled and gloriously docile for the small space of time in which he didn't have to think, just feel. John moved slightly so that his own lips brushed against the pair close to his face. Those lips leapt into action almost immediately, beginning to kiss him back slowly and sleepily, their bed-warmed skin soft and comforting in the velvet darkness enveloping John's vision. He sighed contentedly as he kissed these perfect, magnificent lips, and decided that it was time to face the inevitable by opening his eyes.

When John blinked blearily into the new day, he was greeted by the sharp, clear eyes of Sherlock Holmes, dominatrix, staring back at him as they continued to kiss. Neither did anything to stop what was happening, and Sherlock even let out a little groan as John traced his tongue lazily across his. John closed his eyes again and moved his hands up to cup Sherlock's face and run his fingers over those cheekbones. The dominatrix gave John's arse a playful squeeze and rolled over so that he was on top of the smaller man. Sherlock flashed a wolfish grin before moving in to kiss John's neck and nuzzle his throat affectionately. John moaned softly and arched into him.

The sweet simplicity of the moment was shattered by a loud incessant beeping which burst the companionable silence like a dagger to a water balloon. Sherlock jumped embarrassingly and his eyes darted to the alarm clock on his side table which was trilling irritatingly. The two men turned to look at one another. John met Sherlock's gaze and they looked away with a burning heat blossoming in their cheeks.

"I should go..." John said quietly, moving consciously and extracting himself from under the other man.

"Yes," Sherlock murmured distantly "yes, I think that would be for the best." They separated and John wriggled out from the covers while Sherlock flicked the snooze button on the alarm clock and sat dumbly on the bed watching him dress.

John straightened up awkwardly with his trousers clutched to his chest. "Would you mind not..."

"What?" Sherlock snapped more harshly than he intended.

"Looking at me, like that." John finished, looking away and pulling on his boxers where he found them on the floor.

The dominatrix grimaced. "Oh, right." He turned his back and closed his eyes, tugging the sheet tighter around him.

He heard his client clear his throat and Sherlock threw his head over his shoulder to glance at him. John stood uncomfortably in front of the door, fully dressed with his jumper folded in his arms. Neither spoke for what felt like an age. Sherlock swung his legs over the end of the bed and sat fully exposed before the other man. John looked away.

The dominatrix stood slowly and walked over to the door. He stopped very close to the doctor and watched him carefully as he reached behind him and unhooked the silk dressing gown from its peg on the back of the door. Sherlock swirled the garment around his body and tied the sash, quirking an eyebrow as John swallowed thickly. Without a word, the tall man swept out of the room and stalked into the kitchen with John following.

Sherlock stopped in the centre of the living room and John chewed his lip thoughtfully. "Thank you," He whispered. The other man still remained silent. John looked at the front door wistfully and began to walk towards it at a leisurely pace.

The doctor sighed; he didn't know what he had been hoping for, some sort of declaration of love, affection? He should have listened to that little voice, should have stopped himself when it became too much.

"John?" Sherlock said, in his head it was a scream, a guttural choking cry which encompassed all the emotion he had been holding back for so long, trying to find some way of making the agony of loneliness and despondence go away for good.

John paused, a sound so slight it was little more of a breath drifting in the space between them after Sherlock opened his mouth to speak.

"Yes?" He said, trying to keep the hope out of his voice.

Sherlock swallowed, his chest hollow and his head light and airy. He pretended there were no feelings, no weight of confusion and distress overwhelming him, he was a master at pretending, and it had always been what he did best. He saw John stopping, and so desperately wanted to tell him what he wanted to hear, what Sherlock wanted to say.

"Goodbye." He said.

John closed his eyes and walked away. He didn't look back.


	5. Chapter 5

The door slammed behind John and Sherlock flinched visibly. It felt as though someone had reached into his chest and torn out his heart, if he had a heart. The dominatrix closed his eyes and covered them with his hands, he was never one for expressing emotion, but now he couldn't stop the overwhelming emptiness which ate through him like a disease, consuming his very being with the profound absence of John Watson.

He dragged himself to the armchair and adopted the foetal position, curled into a tight ball with his head tucked between his knees.

Sherlock didn't move for a long time, concentrating on his breathing and the steady throb of his pulse in his temples. He looked up as Molly knocked softly on the door to the flat and entered. The dominatrix smiled weakly at her as she set the cup of tea down on the table next to him and touched his arm in a friendly manner. They didn't speak, and his assistant quickly got the message that Sherlock wasn't going to pay her any more attention, he was lost in his thoughts, slowly stroking a hand repetitively over his neck where a crimson love-bite bruised the delicate china pallor of his skin.

Molly retreated to the door again, pausing by the side table to collect the wad of money deposited by her employer's previous client. "No!" Sherlock said loudly as her fingers brushed the bills. Molly looked up as Sherlock strode across the room and took the payment from her unresisting hands. She nodded politely and stepped out of the room, undeterred by his unusual behaviour.

As soon as Molly closed the door, Sherlock walked purposefully to the fireplace, retrieving the Persian slipper from behind the coal scuttle and digging in the toe for the lighter he had secreted there. The tall man held it triumphantly and then crossed the room to the kitchen where he stood over the sink.

One by one the dominatrix separated the bills and flicked the lighter, watching the naked flame dance between his fingertips before holding it to the money. A wicked, deviant smile crept over his features as Sherlock set light to his payment, watching the fire lick hungrily at the thin paper bills, eating away at his unjustified reward and erasing a fraction of the self-loathing he felt burning inside of him, terrifying and fierce, more destructive than the malicious rage of the fire, powerful and dominating, thriving with lust and determination as it consumes. He burned it all.

* * *

Sherlock lay alone in his bed; the cold, moist sheets clinging to his bare skin and making him feel dirty and disgusting. He rolled onto his back and stared unseeingly out of the window. The night was wild and frivolous, the trees outside swaying dangerously close to the houses as the bitter wind tore through their branches. He winced and fought back a cry as his sudden movement caused a sharp and lingering pain in his groin. Everything hurt. He touched himself gently, looking for any signs of permanent damage caused by his last monstrous client. Sherlock gave a distressed little whimper as he saw the blood from his torn skin near his entrance staining his fingertips a violent crimson. The dominatrix let his hand fall to his side, what did it matter anymore? After coming so close to feeling something  _real,_ something  _human,_ and having it ripped from him, nothing was the same. Sherlock was breaking, the fragments of his shattered love tearing through his chest and embedding themselves in his vital organs. But no matter how much he hurt, life still continued to move on without him, he still needed work and there were still people willing to give it to him.

He thought of the man who had just left, a hulking, aggressive beast who had abused his body so horribly. Sherlock had always prided himself on not feeling anything for any one of his clients, but there was nothing he could do to stop the pain which they inflicted. They hadn't even kissed once, no tenderness, passion, just rough, emotionless sex, the other man pounding into him and making him scream in agony as he seized him in his fat, hairy arms and held him down while he thrashed. It had hurt a lot, every thrust like a stab from a sharp blade as he pushed into him forcefully over and over again. Sherlock was prevented from crying out; unable to say a word against him for fear that the man would lose control. He needed the money, and if there was one sure way to get it, it was this. He couldn't do it at first, couldn't become aroused no matter what method he used, but that didn't seem to matter to the man as he threw Sherlock down on the bed and fucked him mercilessly until blood began seeping through his sheets, and the moans of fake pleasure mingled with pain became strangled, pleading cries. When he was done, the man left Sherlock spread out on the bed, coated in semen and smeared with the blood from his wounded body, and threw the money in his face. Sherlock had watched the notes fluttering to the floor and settling over his bed with disinterest, not caring when some of them scattered to the far corners of the room and slipped under dressers and cupboards never to be retrieved. Only when he was certain he heard the door slam downstairs did Sherlock finally allow himself to cry.

* * *

"John? John Watson?" The doctor paused, his grip tightening reflexively around his crutch, a military man to the last. He turned quickly, and was greeted by the round, shining face of an old friend. "It's Mike, Stamford, we were at Bart's together!" The man said cheerfully, extending a meaty palm for John to shake.

"Mike, right, yes, hello." The doctor replied quietly, resurfacing from his thoughts.

John really didn't want to talk to this man now, not when everything was so bright and new and damn confusing. They talked for some time about benign, trivial matters, and when Mike asked if John was alright when the doctor jumped at the sight of a man wearing a long dark coat, he smiled absently and answered that it was nothing of importance, even though he knew it was everything to him.

John couldn't seem to shake the memories of that night he had spent with Sherlock Holmes. He would dream of it, the beauty of that man, his smell, his body, the feel of his skin beneath his palm and the taste flooding his senses as the other man finally let go. Every dream ended with that sensual cry of John's name and the swell of happiness and contentment John had felt at being the one to bring him there. It had been almost a week now of waking up staring at the raging morning erection he hadn't had since he was a teenager. John would hobble to the bathroom and take a shower every morning and pray that it would go away, along with the desperate longing which gnawed at his insides, telling him that he had to see that man again.

It had been one of the hardest things John had ever done, leaving that flat. For the first time since he had returned to London, John had felt wanted, and it had hurt so much that he knew it wasn't real, and that Sherlock could never feel anything for him.

John knew all this when he climbed the stairs of 221B Baker Street later that afternoon...

* * *

Sherlock stood under the spray of the hot shower, the scorching water cascading down his back and the steam billowing in clouds around him. He watched as the last of the evidence disappeared and the water ran pink for a brief moment before being swallowed by the drain. He had scrubbed his skin raw in an effort to remove the sticky traces the brutish man had left on his body, but nothing could repair the damage of the loss which was slowly consuming his entire being. Sherlock still didn't feel clean. He sighed deeply, his limbs aching and his eyes tired, puffy and red from the tears of anguish he had shed. Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he had cried like that, the choking sobs wracking his entire body, and he knew that it wasn't entirely because of the pain or the abuse. The dominatrix sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, turning off the shower and stepping out onto the cold tiles. He grabbed a thick towel from the rack and wound it round his waist tightly, feeling exposed and vulnerable after his recent experience.

John walked slowly, the door stood ajar and there was no one in sight as he wandered around the little flat searching for the man he couldn't get out of his head. Sherlock's assistant had allowed him to walk right up; she was too pre-occupied with her lunch to worry about that man Sherlock seemed to have formed an attachment to. The doctor was about to call for Sherlock when the tall, handsome man strolled into view, his dark hair tousled and dripping wet, with a clean white towel wrapped around his waist and slipping dangerously low on his hips. He stopped abruptly when he saw the smaller man, and his right hand froze where it had been carding through his curls absently. "John...?" He breathed, a hand darting to catch the towel which was about to fall. The doctor felt a catch in his throat as he glimpsed that thin trail of dark hair leading down beneath the towel. Sherlock blushed and pulled the towel tighter. "What are you doing here?" He asked, making eye contact with the other man and holding his gaze.

John rubbed the nape of his neck consciously and smiled. It was the first genuine smile he given anyone since that night. "I don't know," he murmured, "I'm kind of here on a whim, I didn't bet on actually making it up the stairs I guess." Sherlock smiled back warmly, resting his hands on the towel and chuckling to himself.

"Bad timing," he said, gesturing to his bare chest.

John swallowed visibly and nodded, he whirled around suddenly with his hands laced behind his head in exasperation. "Shit, I'm sorry, I don't know what I was thinking, this was stupid. I just wanted to ask you something that's all. Forget I said anything." John grumbled in his irritation. Sherlock just watched him flip out and smiled. He ambled over to his armchair and sat down carefully, John turned in time to see the other man wincing in pain as he tried to get comfortable in his chair. "You OK?" He asked with concern, pausing in his rant to acknowledge the condition of his acquaintance.

Sherlock nodded stiffly. "Fine." He muttered, shifting awkwardly and trying to ignore the soreness plaguing his lower regions. "Please continue, Doctor, I do believe you were about to have a stress induced heart attack." John laughed bitterly and shook his head as if chiding himself. "You were going to ask me something?" Sherlock prompted, trying and failing to cross his legs.

"Uh, yeah," John stuttered and became suddenly fascinated with a stain on the carpet at his feet which the dominatrix was pretty sure was a mixture of coffee and semen...that had been an very interesting day. The taller man cocked an eyebrow inquisitively and steepled his fingers beneath his chin.

"I was wondering, if you want to that is...would you like to have dinner with me?" John said confidently, swallowing his shyness. Sherlock was surprised, that was not what he had been expecting at all. Unfortunately John took Sherlock's delayed reaction as a no, and he quickly became very nervous and self-conscious of his actions as he shuffled his feet and frowned at nothing.

"Yes," Sherlock said with a gentle smile. John lifted his head with a look of comical surprise plastered on his face.

"Really?" He spluttered.

Sherlock grinned at him and leaned forwards. "I would like that very much."

The doctor nodded once, biting his lip. "Right, good, OK then." he huffed a laugh and mirrored Sherlock's giddy expression.

"Is this a date?" Sherlock asked, suddenly very serious. John raised his eyebrows and chuckled again.

"Yeah, I suppose it is, if you want it to be." He answered as Sherlock stood up and walked towards him.

"I think I do." He smiled lop-sidedly, that brilliant smile John had fallen in love with when they first met.

"Then, it's a date." John confirmed, his eyes sparkling brightly as Sherlock looked at him. "I know a great restaurant, Angelo's, across the road from Northumberland Street, Covent Garden, you know it?" Sherlock nodded, eyes still fixed on him. "When are you free?" the doctor asked, his fingers now inches away from that perfect pale chest.

Sherlock frowned momentarily, his thick eyebrows knitting together with thought. "I don't think I have any clients today, is seven o'clock agreeable?" He said hopefully, aware that he was now uncharacteristically nervous of John's reply, like he was suddenly going to see sense and retract his offer.

"That sounds perfect." John murmured, blushing a little and hooking his thumbs through the belt loops of his jeans nonchalantly. The dominatrix stepped away from the other man where they had been getting dangerously close to contact and nodded again.

"Guess I'll see you later then," John said happily, retracing his steps back to the door and leaving Sherlock standing alone in the centre of the room. He smiled at the dominatrix one final time, feint wrinkles creasing around his eyes as he did so "Bye, Sherlock." the doctor called before he turned around and ducked out of the flat.

"Goodbye, John." Sherlock replied, trying to place the unfamiliar feeling of warmth bubbling up inside him as he watched the other man skip down the steps, but, being Sherlock, he put it down to an upset stomach and wandered away to the window. He watched John walk away, admiring the little swagger in his hips and a particular manner in his gait which had the connotations of someone who was in very high spirits indeed. Sherlock smiled briefly to himself and lifted a finger to his lips to subconsciously trace the ghost of the doctor's sweet and tender kisses he remembered so vividly.

His chest convulsed quite unexpectedly and he clapped a hand over his mouth to stop the weird infections kind of laughter fizzing inside him from spilling over his lips. This was so strange, his body was reacting to the recent news in a very peculiar way, every nerve tingling with anticipation, and that comforting warmth casting its tendrils throughout the tall man's body, seeking out every shred of self-hatred and pain he had felt at his earlier mistreatment and replacing it with a special kind of hope which no quantity of rational thought could dispel. Sherlock felt very distinctly that there was a whisper of something piggybacking on the warm breeze from the open window, a tantalizing promise of things yet to come...like everything you know is about to change.

"Molly!" He hollered excitedly, waiting for the incessant patter of her feet on the stairs again.

"Sir!" She yelled back, bursting into the flat eagerly.

"I have a date tonight; I'll need some time to get ready."

Molly stared at him blankly. "A...date, sir?"

"Yes, a date, with a man, it's where two people who like each other go out and have fun."

"Right, OK, how much time will you need?" She asked, trying to ignore the insanity of the conversation.

Sherlock smiled broadly, thinking of John, naked and gorgeous, stretched out beneath him...

The dominatrix let out a long, aching sigh "Ages..."


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock glared at his reflection in the full-length mirror and groaned in his frustration. This was the third suit he had tried on now. The dominatrix possessed many clothes, but no matter how long he had been trying them on, nothing seemed right. The tall man stripped out of the shirt and tie angrily, throwing them on the floor and staring at his body critically. He never really looked at himself naked; he had others to do that for him. Sherlock ran a hand over his flat chest and frowned, he didn't understand why people found him attractive at all. He was lean and gangly, his limbs all spidery and skeletal, sharp cheekbones, bone-white skin, an unruly mop of dark hair and piercing blue eyes. He sighed, his gaze travelling down his body past his hips and between his legs where it rested thoughtfully. He cocked his head to one side and chewed his lip. He was in proportion, he supposed, but before Sherlock had time to analyse his body further, Molly swept into the room unannounced and gave a little yelp of surprise.

Sherlock chuckled as Molly slapped a hand over her eyes and whirled away in embarrassment. "Sorry! Oh, God, I'm so sorry!" She babbled helplessly. The dominatrix smiled and walked to the bed to retrieve his underwear.

"Molly, you can open your eyes now." He told her kindly, smiling as she opened one experimentally and peeked out to see him standing with his hands on his hips, now wearing pants. She blushed and ran her fingers through her hair nervously.

"Any better?" She asked, gesturing to the suit with a hopeful look.

"No," he muttered bitterly, flopping down onto the bed with another load groan.

"Try this," Molly said, holding up the deep purple shirt which was one of his favourites. Sherlock raised his head in interest and dragged himself up into standing again. He pulled on some trousers and shrugged the shirt on, smoothing the sleeves and turning them up a little.

"Works for me." Molly said boldly, stroking a hesitant hand over his shoulder blades.

Sherlock laughed "Everything works on you, Mol." He replied, admiring his attire and nodding appreciatively. Yes, this would do nicely.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes had never been on a date. He understood the concept, the proper behaviour required, but he had never put this knowledge into practise. He stood outside Angelo's restaurant, a pleasant little place with candles flickering on each table and couples seated inside, nerves cramping in his stomach. Sherlock tried doing what he always did when he was bored or needed to occupy his mind; he deduced people. He didn't think it was a special talent, nothing to be proud of. He had long believed that his only talent lay in his body, but this was an entertaining trick when he wanted to forget about his own life and focus the problems of others for a change. He turned his attention to the people in the restaurant curiously, working out everything from birthdays and number of pets owned, to menstrual cycles and brands of shaving foam.

John felt the helpless smile creep over his face as he saw Sherlock standing outside Angelo's waiting for him. There was a part of him which had honestly thought that the man wouldn't show up. The very idea that a man like Sherlock could be interested in someone like him seemed absurd. "Sherlock!" He called cheerily, touching the other man's arm to get his attention.

The dominatrix smiled back, his eyes lighting up at the sight of John dressed up in what was clearly a well-worn suit with a tiny hole at the sleeve the smaller man probably hadn't noticed. "You look fantastic." He blurted unthinkingly. John blushed and his smile grew wider.

"Thanks, so do you." They beamed at each other for a full ten seconds before John coughed and gestured to the door.

"Shall we?" He said with a raised eyebrow. Sherlock nodded and they went inside.

It was hot and teaming with customers inside Angelo's, and the couple were greeted by a rather flustered looking overweight man with a straggly beard and a stained apron tied around his waist. "John!" He cried in a deep gruff voice.

"Hey Angelo, how's things?" John replied, shaking the other man's hand.

"Bit cramped in here these days, seems word got out about my famous beef casserole eh?" he chucked heartily. Sherlock couldn't help but smile at him, such a jolly man, even after having such a stressful ordeal since being tried with murder...

"You here on a date you old stud?" Angelo joked, nudging John suggestively and winking at Sherlock.

John ignored the comment. "Get us a table you cocky bastard." He grumbled, still smiling as Sherlock leaned forwards and laid a hand comfortably on the small of John's back and kept it there until they reached the table by the window. Angelo eyed the gesture knowingly as he set down the menus for them.

"Best seat in the house, for you and your date" The older man said, grinning.

"Alright, bugger off." John muttered with a smile. Sherlock chuckled to himself, there was something very endearing about the small cuddly man cursing like a sailor. He sat down with his back to the room, his gaze instantly drawn to the man seated opposite him.

"John, you should know that I haven't done anything like this before." Sherlock confessed.

"Like what? Dating?" John asked, puzzled. The dominatrix nodded uncomfortably. John shrugged.

"That's OK, I've never had sex with a prostitute before, there's a first time for everything." He said casually. Sherlock choked on the water he had been sipping and a few people stared at him with concern and mild irritation.

"You alright?" John asked with a gentle laugh, reaching out and laying his hand over Sherlock's which was resting on the table. The dominatrix nodded and glanced at their hands, making no move to pull away. He slowly turned his hand palm up, skin brushing against John's lightly. The doctor's pulse quickened ever so slightly as Sherlock ran his fingertips over the inside of his wrist and traced the lines in his palm. The dark haired man was enraptured with their hands, his lips parted and his brow furrowed in concentration. John curled his fingers around Sherlock's and held his hand. The dominatrix and the doctor exchanged glances, warmth and humanity radiating between them.

"I'm sorry if this seems weird," John said suddenly, meeting Sherlock's gaze once more. The pair seemed to have a strange affinity for knowing when the other person was looking at them. The dominatrix didn't seem to understand. "It's just that... I don't really have anyone else." Sherlock's grip on his hand tightened fractionally at these words.

"It's...fine." Sherlock replied, smiling crookedly and lowering his gaze. "It's all fine."

* * *

They talked for some time, ordering food and drinks between topics of conversation. John's face hurt from grinning so much, and Sherlock was beginning to see why humans put themselves through all this bother just to find a partner. John was brilliant and funny, and brave, so brave. Sherlock couldn't help remembering the ugly scar he had soothed with his lips that memorable night, and now he had the chance to find out how it had come to be.

It was a terrible thought, to imagine John at war. Sherlock felt humbled by the doctor's stories of the experiences he had, the battle he fought, both political and psychological. Their hands remained joined throughout the whole evening, even when they became sweaty and hot, neither man dared let go.

By the third glass of wine, John was suitably tipsy and Sherlock was beginning to lisp. It happened when he drank, an unfortunate consequence of consuming alcohol to him, but John seemed to find it adorable.

The doctor dangled the bottle in front of Sherlock's face and poured the last drop into the empty wine glass. "Are you trying to get me drunk, _doctor_?" Sherlock drawled, sipping at the alcohol and peering at John through his dark lashes flirtatiously.

"That depends," John replied, eyeing the dominatrix with something dangerously close to desire burning in his gaze. "Is it working?"

Sherlock gave a little huffed laugh and smiled faintly, looking at their joined hands and stroking his thumb over John's knuckles affectionately.

By now the restaurant had almost emptied completely, the few couples lagging behind were tripping towards the door drunk on lust and alcohol. The two men seated quietly by the window made eye contact again briefly and John felt his smile falter and die on his lips as he stared into the infinite abyss of those cool blue eyes. "It's getting late," the doctor pointed out, giving Sherlock's hand a gentle squeeze.

The dominatrix nodded "Yeth," he lisped softly. The pair released the other's hand to don coats and scarves, on Sherlock's part. The tall man felt the absence of John's hand instantly, his palm cool and somewhat lonely without something warm and comforting to grasp. They smiled at each other hesitantly and John preceded Sherlock to the door.

Angelo watched the last couple leave with a strange feeling of possessiveness over his friend. John walked confidently forwards, his date shadowing him close behind. The older man cracked a smile and ran his fingers through his greying hair with a chuckle, they would be good together, he could tell. His friend, the broken army doctor he had once known, turned to face his mysterious gentleman, his eyes sparkling with happiness and compassion.

John offered his hand and Sherlock took it gladly, their fingers lacing together tightly as though they had been repeating the action for years. The dominatrix gave John's hand a squeeze again and they set off in the direction of the main road to hail a cab to take them wherever they pleased.


	7. Chapter 7

The coupled reached the road, walking at a leisurely pace. The dominatrix was 'accidentally' bumping his hips against John's and occasionally brushing their legs as they walked. He was suddenly very curious about their proximity, and wanted to show the proper conduct in getting closer to the doctor. John just smiled and leaned into Sherlock a little. Was this odd? He wondered if what they were doing was as completely insane as part of him kept insisting was the case. After all, they were two people quite obviously not suited to each other. They were broken, lonely men, but perhaps, that was it? Perhaps, after all this time...

They arrived at the road and Sherlock raised his left hand to hail the taxi, his right currently in the possession of a certain army doctor. The taxi pulled up and the driver stared at the couple expectantly. John and Sherlock looked at each other, realizing neither knew where they were going.

Before John could utter one word, Sherlock swept him into his arms and kissed him breathless with passion. The doctor's legs buckled and the taller man held him up, lifting John's feet off the ground in his excitement. The smaller man grinned against his lips and Sherlock only held him tighter, crushing the other man to him with a fierce kind of possessiveness which both thrilled and delighted John.

They parted and Sherlock set him down with a whispered apology, touching their foreheads and gazing into John's eyes. The cabbie tutted indignantly and frowned at them. "I haven't got all night you know, you want this cab or not?" he called through the window. John turned around in Sherlock's arms, which were still circled around his waist, and nodded to the disgruntled man before addressing the dominatrix.

"Would you, uh," John began, his mouth suddenly very dry. "Would you like to come back to mine?" Sherlock blinked, not knowing the right thing to say in this situation. He went with his instincts and just said what he wanted for a change.

"Yes." Sherlock articulated clearly, his mind sobering in the cold night air.

John's face lit up with promise and Sherlock gave a wobbly smile. Why the hell was he nervous? The doctor tugged Sherlock's hand and pulled them both into the back of the cab. Sherlock lost his balance and fell into John's lap. The smaller man grinned as the other man landed right between his legs. Sherlock reached up and tugged the door shut and John called out the address to the cabbie before the tall man fell back into his arms. The dominatrix stared up at him in wonder as John leaned in and kissed him. The kiss was tender and gentle, little brushes of delicate skin and a pressure hinting at the contained desire within.

The cabbie cleared his throat deliberately and the pair jumped apart, their cheeks flushed and hearts hammering with anticipation. The taxi pulled up outside John's building and the couple leapt out eagerly, John throwing money at the driver as Sherlock touched a hand to his lower back and let it slide down to caress his rear cheekily.

John wrenched open the main door and staggered up the stairs with Sherlock close behind, their breathing ragged and desperate as John pushed Sherlock up against the wall in a fit of bizarre strength and mashed their mouths together.

The dominatrix grinned against John's lips and closed his eyes, but he didn't have long to relish the moment as the doctor dragged him by the hand down the hall to a plain blue door and rammed his key somewhere in the general vicinity of the lock in his frustration. Sherlock sighed and took the keys from John's hand, planting a soft kiss on the smaller man's cheek and slotting in the key, unlocking the door with ease. The couple staggered in together, knocking knees and elbows as they collided with each other in their haste. John made a move to flick on the light but a cool long fingered hand stopped him.

"Leave it," Sherlock whispered close to his ear, his breath tickling the fine hairs on the nape of John's neck. The dominatrix liked the darkness; it comforted him, made him feel less exposed, it protected him, it resembled the pain and internal grief he felt at his degrading work, a sick, twisted being coiling in his gut and choking his very soul. But Sherlock had this time now, this sweet, gentle awakening, time to be with someone he actually cared for. The dominatrix kissed John's jaw and nudged his body forwards until they were as close as they were able.

Sherlock could feel John's heart beating faster at their proximity. He pushed the smaller man further into the room but faltered. "John," he breathed conspiratorially into the pitch black room.

"Yes," the doctor managed, shaking a little as Sherlock's arms snaked around his waist and one hand loosely cupped the bulge in the front of John's trousers.

"Where's the bed?" The taller man asked nervously. John chuckled and pulled Sherlock over to the single bed, urging him to lay down with a gentle shove in the centre of his chest. The dominatrix fell onto the tired mattress and tugged John down next to him, bringing the other man's hand to rest over his heart. Their eyes met for the first time since leaving the cab and John's breath caught in his throat. Sherlock was staring at him with such adoration and tenderness that he felt as though he could cry. Nobody had ever looked at him with such emotion before. He was filled with the overwhelming sense that this right here was something very special indeed.

Sherlock ran a hand up John's side, his fingers creeping beneath his tee shirt and stroking the warm skin underneath. The doctor smiled, inching closer to the other man and kissing him. It was a slow and deliberate kiss to begin with, but Sherlock began carding his fingers through John's hair, massaging his scalp and forcing them closer. John sighed contentedly, their legs tangling together on the small bed and their breath mingling.

Both men had a simultaneous thought. This moment was so perfect that they never wanted it to end. John wrapped the dominatrix in his arms and they kissed again passionately. It came as no surprise that as they moved against each other that Sherlock could no longer control his desire and John felt skilled fingers on his belt once more, and hesitant eyes searching his face for permission. John began working with the buttons on Sherlock's shirt, and the dominatrix left his hands where they were, resting on John's middle with a quiet resignation.

They undressed each other slowly, taking their time now to be as caring and compassionate as they wanted. The doctor pushed Sherlock gently onto his back and bent over him, his hands running up the other man's chest, the full length of his pale neck, and cupping the back of his head, fingers threading easily into the soft curls. "God, you're beautiful." He murmured quietly.  _Shit, had he just said that out loud?_ Sherlock chuckled and pulled him close, letting John straddle him and press their bodies together.

"Thank you," came the whispered reply as the dominatrix slid his hand down and rubbed John slowly through the front of his jeans. The doctor choked a little and groaned as he felt the familiar stirring in his groin as Sherlock stroked his growing erection deliberately.

"Let me make love to you, John." The other man growled seductively. John whimpered a little and arched into Sherlock as the other man unzipped his trousers and began working them over his hips.

"I need you, Sherlock, I need you." John whispered, not knowing what he was saying anymore, only that it was the absolute truth.

"I'm here," Sherlock replied, kissing John's bare skin and thrusting slightly as he undressed the other man.

John was magnificent. Sherlock admired the bulge in his pants briefly before helping the doctor out of them and drawing a careful breath at the sight of him.

The smaller man groaned loudly and panted a little as Sherlock stroked him gently and began wriggling out of his own trousers and shirt. Before they could go further John pulled the duvet from the end of the bed and dragged it over their naked bodies considerately. Sherlock smiled. It was always the small things that made being with John extra special. But right now there was a rather not-very-small thing between them requiring his urgent attention.

The doctor settled himself on top of Sherlock and the two men began rocking together carefully, every miniscule movement causing a wonderful friction between them. John frowned, his hand wandering down between them cautiously.

"Sherlock, are you OK?" He asked, touching the dominatrix intimately and eliciting no response. Sherlock closed his eyes and looked away in his shame.

"I'm sorry, I just, I can't." He said, his voice breaking embarrassingly.

John rolled off him and laid a caring hand on the other man's chest, his breathing returning to normal and his arousal fading.

"What happened?" He said, reaching out and taking Sherlock's hand sweetly. The dominatrix didn't say anything for a while, and John had given up on receiving a reply before the other man finally spoke in a quiet, damaged tone.

"He hurt me. My client, before you came to see me this morning." Sherlock shook his head and John's heart broke. "I'm sorry; I can't do this, not yet."

"Oh Sherlock," John murmured, sweeping a lock of hair form the other man's brow and kissing his cheek. "Will you let me look?" He asked gently. Sherlock hesitated before nodding meekly. "OK, roll over for me? Onto your side...that's it, face me, everything's fine." He instructed, stroking a calloused hand over the other man's ribs and across one smooth buttock lovingly. Sherlock gave him a worried look as John's hand strayed between his legs. "I'm a doctor, you can trust me." John reassured him before running a single finger delicately over his entrance and wincing along with the other man as Sherlock hissed in pain.

John's eyes widened as the realization hit him and he removed his hand, holding Sherlock close and pressing their bodies together. The dominatrix frowned in confusion, why should John care? It wasn't his problem, wasn't his body.

The doctor kissed Sherlock's jaw and his neck and his throat lovingly. "Did he rape you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't answer, removing himself from John's embrace and propping his body up on his elbows. He gave John a quizzical look and sighed. "It's my job John; it's always rape if I don't want it."

The doctor placed a hand warily on Sherlock's hip and the dominatrix looked at it accusingly.

"Don't you want this Sherlock?" He asked nervously, watching Sherlock's every move with concern. The tall man widened his eyes and stared at John in shock, lying down next to him again and caressing the doctor's face tenderly.

"Yes, I do want it, very much so. I'm sorry." He smiled lopsidedly at the smaller man and rested a hand on his waist. "John, that night with you was the first time I had felt anything for anyone. You did that John, you fixed me."

The doctor's face softened and he nudged Sherlock with his leg. "Come here." He said, cuddling into the other man and tangling their legs together once more, smiling as Sherlock tucked his head into the hollow of his neck comfortably. Like pieces of a puzzle, they fitted together seamlessly, every curve of John's stockier form mirroring the elegant dips and concave valleys of the other man's body.

"Let's just sleep tonight, your injuries are nothing serious, everything should be fine. The bastard that did that to you makes me sick, Sherlock, I wish I could make the pain go away."

The other man said nothing, unused to having someone pouring their heart out to him. So he just lay there and listened contentedly, feeling the strange warmth spreading throughout his body at the words John was whispering to him and having no idea what it meant.

John closed his eyes and listened to the steady breathing of the man lying in his arms. "Oh and Sherlock? You can't fix what isn't broken."

In the darkness the dominatrix cracked a dazzling smile of happiness and closed his eyes, preparing for sleep with the man who had changed his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I just reread this chapter and realised how cheesy it is, but it's half ten at night and I don't have to patience to rewrite it. Please excuse the god awful cliches.


	8. Chapter 8

Mmm...bacon.

Sherlock opened his eyes, wiping an unattractive trail of drool from his chin and blinking blearily, frowning at the sunlight streaming through the window as though it had personally wronged him. He was caught in those few, blissful moments of half-wakeful peace where nothing mattered. All the dominatrix had was a single, wonderfully perfect sounding name which rolled of his tongue effortlessly and felt good as he shaped his lips around it.

"John," he murmured, rolling over and flailing blindly for the doctor's warm arms which had been wrapped around his own lean body protectively. He felt strange without him, naked somehow. Probably because he was...naked that is.

The tall man yawned and stretched his tired limbs, his feet sticking out over the end of the mattress as he uncurled. "Good morning," John said cheerfully, swallowing his arousal as he watched the other man extended his legs to their full impossible length and groan erotically with the relaxing sensation.

Sherlock raised his head and grinned. He didn't remember ever waking up this happy, or grinning this early in the morning for that matter.

John grinned back and held up the frying pan he was holding. "I've got bacon!" He said, wafting the smell closer to the dominatrix.

"Aaaand the morning is perfect." Sherlock said, sighing contentedly and flopping back into the squishy pillow. John laughed.

The doctor forgot about breakfast for a moment, which, he had to admit, didn't happen to him often. He set the pan down and sauntered over to the bed with a sultry swing in his hips, laying down next to the dark haired man and running delicate fingers over his smooth hairless chest.

Sherlock put his arm around John and pulled him close. The other man leaned up and they kissed instantly, as though it was such a natural action it didn't even require thought.

The dominatrix made a sound in the back of his throat which sounded suspiciously like a purr and his nails dug slightly into the flesh of John's back. They parted momentarily and Sherlock nudged his forehead against John's. "This is nice," he murmured, pulling John on top of him and kissing the other man's neck, travelling down to suck gently at that little hollow below John's throat, making the doctor whimper a little as he ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair absently.

John stroked down the other man's back, between his shoulder blades, pausing in shock as he felt the unmistakable ridges of scarring raised on his lover's smooth, previously unmarred skin. "...Sherlock, oh my god" He breathed; caressing the bumps and thick knots of scar tissue he could feel which ran in distinctive lines along the other man's back. They were lacerations, hideous and sickeningly cruel in their infliction, a whip or sharp object he guessed being their origin.

The dominatrix reached back and brought John's hands round, stroking the doctor's knuckles with his thumbs. "It's alright," Sherlock said softly, bringing the other man's hands to his lips and brushing a kiss over the calloused skin.

"No, it's not alright Sherlock, it's never alright for someone to treat you like this, do you understand?" John brought the other man's face up to meet his eyes. The dominatrix saw all the hurt he had caused him reflected in those gentle eyes. John felt everything Sherlock went through and more, and it was killing him to watch his own past replayed in the eyes of another person, it looked so much more brutal, so much more  _real_ than it had seemed when he was there. He remembered the nightswhen he had nursed the weeping sores on his back and blotted the brilliant crimson blood with the torn sheets. The scars from the cold metal handcuffs faded, but the deep gashes on his back from the sharp sting of the riding crop remained, so too did the mental scars he felt he could never erase. Sherlock remembered lying there, his body broken and torn, and being able to feel nothing. He remembered returning the torturous acts, beating his clients over and over and over again as they screamed, pleaded for more, feeling nothing.

Sherlock sighed "I can see you're not going to let this go easily." He muttered, averting his gaze from John's malicious glare.

"Damn straight I'm not going to let this go Sherlock! How could you let anyone treat you like this? Haven't you any self respect?"

"Of course I do!" Sherlock snapped impatiently. John shrank back a little before he caught himself. The dominatrix let his shoulders slump in defeat and repentance, like a dog begging for forgiveness from its master. "I do," he repeated steadily, "but it just doesn't matter to me how those people use my body, it's not real."

John's heart stuttered to a halt momentarily as he processed this. "Is this real?" He asked quietly, backing slowly away from his new lover with a wary and primitive hesitance in his manner.

The dominatrix didn't offer an answer, merely watching the other man uncertainly, not knowing what to say. John sat up, his deliciously warm body no longer touching any part of Sherlock, who continued to be infuriatingly persistent in his silence. The doctor drew his knees up to his chest, mimicking a scared child, hugging them tightly and folding his body in on itself protectively like he did when he was little, when that infantile cloak of ignorance was lifted and he glimpsed the cruel inhumanity of the real world. He wanted it back now, the simple times when he could just curl up in a ball and think it would all go away.

"What are we doing, Sherlock?" He mumbled, his arm muffling his words as the army doctor tucked his head between his knees and screwed his eyes tight shut so Sherlock wouldn't see the fear residing deep within him.

"I don't know." The dominatrix replied, sweeping his gaze over John's huddled form, and his own stark nakedness beside him. What were they doing?

"Yeah, me neither." John gave a soft hiccup of humourless laughter.

Were they stupid? This could never work could it? The doctor and the dominatrix, the broken man and the sociopath...John was beginning to wonder which one of those he was. 

* * *

Sherlock stood by the door to John's flat, his jacket folded in his arms and his hair smoothed down neatly. He was staring at his feet and avoiding the awkward gaze of the older man who was looking at him with such an intent possessiveness that he could hardly bare to leave him. The doctor stepped forwards and laid a tentative hand on the other man's chest, gazing up at Sherlock's face and willing him to look down at him.

"You don't have to go." He whispered, reaching up and stroking his thumb over Sherlock's cheek tentatively.

"Yes, I do." The dominatrix replied, leaning slightly into the gentle caress. "I have a...I have a client." He paused uncertainly in the middle of his sentence, hating what he had to do in order to survive in this world, but most of all hating himself for letting it distance him from the one good thing that had ever happened to him.

John swallowed, trying to ignore the hurt and anger he felt at the knowledge that soon Sherlock would be in the arms of another person, someone who didn't give a damn about that wonderful man and his damaged but no less perfect body.

" _Please,_ " John choked, his fingers curling tightly around the fabric of the other man's shirt. "Don't do this."

"I don't have a choice, John," Sherlock bit angrily, channelling his frustration into the bitter, venomous words. "And the sooner you learn that the better it will be, for both of us." He shook the other man's hand off roughly, pushing him away and stalking to the door.

"You do have a choice!" John screamed at the other man's back as he slammed the door, his body shaking with the emotion which tainted every fibre of his being and wrapped strangling tendrils around his heart.

* * *

Sherlock walked away down the dark corridor with his head bowed in resignation.

No matter how hard he tried the dominatrix could not shake that terrible certainty that the one thing which had always grounded him before no longer mattered.

He did have a choice, and he was choosing wrong.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock stood before the woman with his hands clasped protectively behind his back and his eyes trained fixedly on the bookcase just over her right shoulder.

The woman walked forwards, her breasts milk white, voluptuous, and not at all appealing as she pressed them against his chest. "Have you been  _wicked_  Mr Holmes?" She purred, leaning up and nipping his ear lobe none too gently. Sherlock winced, trying his best to retain his air of unrepressed lust and not shy away from her impertinent advances.

She wanted him to play hard to get, and this was him at his best. Sherlock refused to look at his client as she ran her ice cold fingers over his skin and scratched lightly at his chest with the vicious red talons which encased her nails. "Yes, Miss Adler." He replied, his voice stagnant and monotonous.

Miss Adler pushed the shirt from his shoulders, her spiteful tongue flicking out to taste his flesh as she licked a trail from his collar bone to the curve of his jaw. It should have been arousing, but all the dominatrix could feel was her hand straying to the front of his jeans and the cold wet sensation of her saliva drying on his skin. It sickened him.

The woman gripped his shoulders painfully and shoved him back onto the bed, clambering on top of him and straddling his hips. She was heavy, heavier still when she ground against him, and he pretended to gasp as the weight of her on his chest choked the air from his lungs.

"What's the matter?" The woman growled as she rubbed his flaccid cock through his trousers.

_Shit._

The dominatrix tried a sardonic half-smile, his lips twitching in a grimace as he cupped her breast with one hand and caressed a small mole on her thigh with a finger of the other. "I said you had to work for me, Irene, did you really think I would be that easy?" He snarled, nails digging into her creamy flesh with relish.

His client grinned, an evil flash of perfect white teeth which presented a mere ghost of the normally impassive expression. She was empty, hollow inside, consumed by greed and lust. He raised a questioning brow, his muscles cramping as she slid down his body and began to unbutton his jeans...

* * *

Sherlock grunted as the woman pressed her naked body against his own. He pretended to look aroused as she began to stroke him slowly, her thin fingers curling around his limp member in an effort to stimulate him. She frowned, her pretty features scrunching up like the arsehole of a cat as she tried her best to get him erect beneath her palm.

The dominatrix closed his eyes. He couldn't keep this up forever, sooner or later she was going to want her money's worth and he would have to deliver, there had to be something he could do to become aroused. All his previously faultless methods were ineffective, and Sherlock wracked his brain to think of anything that would resolve this situation.  _There's always something Sherlock. Think..._

Irene Adler smiled demurely as she felt the man's body waking up, his cock hardening as she touched him intimately. He mumbled something incoherent, his lips moving slowly, ghosting the shape of a single word, a name maybe...hers?

"What's that darling? You'll have to speak a little louder if you want me to hear you scream my name!" She hissed.

Sherlock gave a deep, guttural moan and pushed up into her palm. "John!" He cried, thrusting against her desperately.

_John._

"What?" She spat, releasing him as though he had burned her and rolling off instantly. "How dare you?" Irene growled, pulling the sheet around her body and glaring daggers at the infuriating man who still lay with his eyes closed and the trace of  _that_ name on his lips.

Sherlock didn't move for a while, realizing his mistake all too quickly. He found that he no longer cared.

Slowly, that bubble of insatiable happiness fought its way up his throat from the pit of his stomach, and he let it.

Then, for the first time in a long time, Sherlock Holmes laughed. He laughed at his client, laughed at the horrified expression on her evil face and the curve of her cruel mouth, he laughed at his job, and he laughed at the husbands and wives, at the secretaries and managers, at the pathetic fallacy of the thriving city, all the times it had seemed like he cared about anyone but  _him_.

Sherlock Holmes looked his life right in the eyes and he laughed in its smarmy gratuitous face.

"Where are you going?" The woman,  _that woman_ cried as Sherlock leapt out of the bed and began tugging on his trousers and shirt. Still he laughed, the hilarity of the situation unapparent to his former client, who stared at him in disbelief, clearly resenting being the punchline of such an obviously raucous joke.

Sherlock swiped his jacket from the floor where it had been discarded, his face aching with the sense of elevation brought on by his joyous epiphany.

"Not that it's any of your fucking business, Madam, but I'm going to go and sweep the love of my life off his feet, and then I do believe we are going to go ahead and make passionate love on his coffee table." Sherlock said cheerfully, straightening his collar and raising his eyebrows, daring her to challenge him. "Now if you'd be so kind as to hand me my other shoe, I'll be on my way." He said politely, reaching out his hand to the woman seated on his bed.

The woman stood up and slapped him soundly across the cheek. The dominatrix grinned, lifting his hand to touch his cheekbone, feeling the wet presence of blood which curiously had seeped from Miss Adler's hand. She had slapped him so hard that she had sliced the skin of her palm on the sharp angle of his cheekbone where the joints of her knuckles came into contact with his face. "You can't leave me here!" Irene hissed, pulling the sheet tighter, her anger flaring.

Sherlock looked at the red stain blossoming on his white sheet where Irene had wrapped it around her body and was holding it with her injured hand. For once it was his client's blood, not his, which stained his bedding.

"You've never had anyone like me Mr  _Sherlock Holmes_ , that man of yours can't even begin to compare-"

"Oh I can assure you I have; headstrong, arrogant, violent, narcissistic, cruel,  _pathetic._ I've had many like you Miss Adler, more than I'd care to mention, and not one of you insolent creatures could ever be worthy to even speak his name. You have no idea what that man means to me. No idea."

"Just who do you think you are?" She yelled incredulously as he bounded to the door, fully clothed and grinning like a lunatic.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes," he said, running into the hall. "And I'm late."


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock burst through the door to the building where John lived, panting from the exertion, his feet pounding on the stairs and his heart hammering a tempestuous rhythm in his chest. "John" He croaked, his throat burning from inhaling the fumes of the city as he sprinted through her web of streets which swarmed with people, a writhing mass of bodies, a temperate barrier between him and the man he so desperately needed to hold in his arms once more. Only this time it wouldn't be a lie, it wouldn't be forced or hesitant, it would be perfect. The dominatrix spun round the top of the banister and dragged his body up the next set of stairs. Why did John have to live on the top floor?

He was so intent on reaching his goal that Sherlock nearly ran into the very man he wanted to see on the stairs. "John!" He rasped, throwing his arms around the smaller man in his joy.

The other man was almost too stunned to speak, holding Sherlock tightly and squeezing him around his non-existent middle. "Oh my god, Sherlock, why are you here? I thought you had to-"

"Don't," the dominatrix whispered, nuzzling John's neck, pulling back and pressing delicate kisses to his cheeks, his jaw, and finally his lips. "Don't, please, don't say it, I'm here that's all that matters."

"Yes, yes you're right, come on lets go upstairs." John gasped, a little breathless from the other man's passionate kisses. There was a sense of urgency which he had never felt with Sherlock before, something so pure and beautiful he could no longer hold back his emotions. John reached up and threw his arms around Sherlock's neck, smothering him with his love, his lips crushing those belonging to the taller man, who laughed in his unbounded happiness and lifted John off his feet, pulling his body up and wrapping his arms around his waist.

The two men stumbled up the final few steps to John's flat, tripping over their own feet and falling over each other in their haste and giddy excitement.

Sherlock was so happy, so stupidly  _happy._ He didn't remember being this wonderfully care-free in years. John was unlocking the door, his hands steady as he inserted the key. The dominatrix tucked an arm around the smaller man's waist and pressed his body close to him, nosing his hair and smiling contentedly.

They walked slowly into the darkened flat, kissing languidly and stripping off articles of clothing as they made their way to John's bed once more. John shed his jumper and shirt, helping Sherlock off with his jacket. They were grinning like idiots the whole while, their hands mapping the other's naked body as they undressed.

Sherlock stepped forwards and they embraced, skin to skin, tan against white. John ran his fingers over Sherlock's old wounds crossing his back, memorizing the raised bumps and dips in the flesh. Sherlock in turn spread his palm over John's shoulder and caressed the delicate skin there. Each man had their scars, their battle wounds.

The dominatrix looked at the magnificent man in his arms and he grinned, his face aching with love. John smiled back, stroking Sherlock's face gently and dragging his fingers through his dark curls. "Why did you come back, Sherlock?" He asked, leaning forwards and pressing a kiss to the other man's lips. Sherlock looked away, his head riddled with answers but none of them presenting themselves as the right one to give his John.

"I made the right choice." He murmured, pulling John's body closer and tucking his head into the crook of his neck. The doctor's hands slid comfortably down his body to rest on his hips, pressing his thumbs into the dip of Sherlock's pelvis lightly and massaging the delicate skin there. The dominatrix gave a soft moan and a rumbling purr of contentment rippled through his body as he curved his spine to fit against his partner.

Sherlock had never felt this much for anyone, and as he watched John settling onto his hands and knees in front of him he knew this man was everything he could ever want. The dominatrix placed his hands on John's hips, feeling him move into position just between his legs. The other man's flushed skin was a burning heat beneath his palm as Sherlock pressed his body close and kissed a delicate line alone John's spine where it curved before him. He smiled that elegant smile, so  _so_ happy.

* * *

"Sherlock!" John cried out, pushing back against the other man as the dominatrix penetrated him, allowing him a little time to adjust before slowly beginning his careful, measured thrusts inside him. The doctor groaned, his whole body aching with need and passion, taking Sherlock completely and closing his eyes as the other man went deeper.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, cradling his body to his chest and laying his head on the other man's back, listening to the quick, desperate breaths sucked into his lungs, and the frantic pattering of his strong heart battling with his heightened arousal and exertion.

The doctor spread his legs a little wider, welcoming Sherlock's body completely, allowing the emotional significance of their union to consume his senses. Every ripple of pleasure was like a promise, deep and profound, an unspoken understanding. Sherlock was making soft little keening sounds in the back of his throat as he thrust faster, the gentle hands resting on the other man's hips beginning to shake. John didn't bother to conceal his enjoyment, he didn't need to. He let the erotic, guttural moans tear through his throat and escape his parted lips as Sherlock made love to him so beautifully, the purity of his soul exposed and laid bare for him. The dominatrix offered not only his body to the doctor, but the entirety of his being.

Sherlock pressed his forehead to John's spine as he groaned and bucked his hips beneath him. He didn't need to manipulate him, didn't need to work for this man, this brilliant man. John was everything Sherlock had ever wanted in a partner, his sensitivity and compassion overwhelming to the cold hearted man. The dominatrix lifted his body up, arching his back and increasing the intensity of their combined pleasure, his muscles screaming at him for relief.

The two men climaxed simultaneously, the swells of their passion overwhelming them as they cried out, calling the other man's name in their release. Sherlock collapsed over John's back and the doctor's knees gave way. The couple fell together into the mattress, still joined intimately. Sherlock pulled out slowly and rolled to the side, his limbs spread encasing the other man's vulnerable body protectively. The dominatrix instantly cuddled into John, pulling him to his chest and pressing tender kisses along his hairline as the other man gasped back his breath.

Sherlock let out a long sigh, burrowing into John's neck and tracing listless patterns over the bare skin of his back. It no longer mattered that they knew so little about one another, because sometimes it doesn't have to make sense to be real. "I love you." The dark haired man murmured against a freckle on John's throat. The doctor didn't move for a few moments, stunned into silence by the sudden declaration.

What Sherlock had just said had come as a shock to them both, not least himself. Sherlock froze at the same time as his lover, his fingers stilling on his back and his breath caught in his throat helplessly. The couple pulled apart uncertainly, keeping a watchful gaze on the other's expression to gauge their reaction.

"John, I-" Sherlock began, but was cut off mid sentence by rough and ferocious lips crushing onto his. John lurched forwards, capturing his lover's words in his own mouth, swallowing the denial he had observed creeping into Sherlock's speech.

The dominatrix frowned, a shiver rippling through his body as John pushed his leg between his thighs and ran his tongue along Sherlock's plump bottom lip. The other man slid his warm hands down, cupping Sherlock's arse and kneading gently, pushing his hips forwards slightly in an effort to convey the depth of his emotion.

Sherlock came up for air, his face flushed and his lips swollen with John's passionate kisses. "I don't understand," he breathed, his chest heaving with exertion as the other man threading his fingers into Sherlock's inky black curls.

"I love you, Sherlock." John said quietly, staring into the other man's eyes with a frightening intensity, daring him to take it back, claim it as a Freudian slip, a gross misunderstanding. Sherlock said nothing.

John smiled faintly, leaning in and punctuating each word with a firm kiss on the other man's lips. "I. Love. You. Sherlock."

The dominatrix sighed, pulling John into a tight embrace and wrapping him in his strong arms. "Thank God." He said, closing his eyes and letting that warm sensation which had been building in his chest for so long now swell and wash over him completely.

For once in his life, Sherlock had someone who actually cared about him, and John had the deep profound connection with another person that he had always longed for.

Life was good.

 


	11. Chapter 11

"John,"

The doctor rolled his eyes, this was the tenth time now, he would be annoyed, but the significance the gesture held to the man in his arms was enough for him to restrain his legendary temper.

"Yes, Sherlock." He said once more, inching a little closer and tucking his arms around the other man contentedly. Again he received no reply.

Sherlock smiled to himself, revelling in that bubble of warmth that fizzled in his chest when he said John's name and the man replied dutifully.

The couple lay in silence for a moment, the early morning sunlight streaming in through John's tiny window and casting aqueous ripples of gold on the carpet. Sherlock shifted slightly, his chest smooth and pale beneath John's palm, and his long legs tangled with those of the other man. John's hands moved down from the small of Sherlock's back and he gave his bum a playful squeeze. The dominatrix jumped and John gave a chuckle. Sherlock was still unused to having any kind of reaction when someone did that to him.

"You know, as much as I hate to say it, we may have to leave the flat today." John murmured against Sherlock's hair as he cuddled closer to him. The other man groaned, nuzzling John's neck affectionately and running a hand down his side to rest on his hip.

The dominatrix yawned and stretched his tired limbs, sliding down John's body until he was level with his face. Without a word Sherlock kissed him, his lips a welcome pressure on John's skin, and slipped his hand from the other man's hip to the inside of his thigh, getting dangerously close to never leaving the bed again.

John nipped Sherlock's full bottom lip gently and stifled a moan as the other man's long fingers traced the delicate skin close to his cock. Sherlock smiled in a self-satisfied manner and opened his eyes to raise an eyebrow at John, who was blushing furiously and gently pushing against his palm. "Oh, you're a bad man." He gasped as Sherlock moved to suck a love bite on the golden skin in the hollow of his throat.

The dominatrix laughed, rolling over and cradling John's body to him so that the smaller man was on top. They hadn't tried it this way yet, and Sherlock wanted to explore every position conceivable with this man. John deserved the best Sherlock could give him. He let his hands rest on John's thighs, massaging the muscle lightly with his fingertips and admiring John's impressive arousal. The smaller man smiled at him, eyes half lidded with lust.

"I didn't say we were going anywhere soon," he said, and Sherlock gave a little yelp of excitement as John ground against him and descended on his lips with a hungry passion.

* * *

"Your hair's a mess." John giggled at Sherlock as they dressed. It had taken them considerably...longer to get anywhere near to being ready to leave that room. The taller man grinned as he tugged on his pants and wandered over to where John was struggling with his jumper. As he helped his lover dress, Sherlock ran his hands over John's tanned skin once more before it was hidden beneath the many layers he insisted on wearing even in the increasing heat.

The dominatrix caught his reflection in the mirror and began carding his fingers through his messy curls in an effort to smooth them down. "Let me," John said, brushing Sherlock's hair out of his eyes and stretching up to peck a kiss on his lips.

"I know a great cafe round the corner, it's late but they serve an all day breakfast if you're hungry?" John said, straightening Sherlock's jacket and brushing a speck of lint from his collar. Sherlock grinned, watching the smaller man fussing over his appearance, mindless of the fact that he was currently not wearing trousers.

"That sounds lovely." He murmured, bending down to hand John his jeans and stroking a hand idly along the other man's thigh as he straightened up. The doctor gave a little huff of breath and leant into the caress.

"Sherlock, if you don't stop we are never going to leave this flat." John groaned, pushing the other man away gently.

Sherlock shrugged, "I can think of worse things." He purred.

"That's it, come on." John said with a chuckle, taking the other man's hand and leading him out of the door.

Sherlock let himself be dragged along, choosing not to mention that John was missing his shoes.

"Fuck it." John growled, traipsing back to the door and pulling Sherlock behind him. The dominatrix laughed.

* * *

"So this...is the cafe." Sherlock murmured, looking around with insatiable curiosity. John rolled his eyes.

"Yes Sherlock, normal people come here to eat food, which, judging by the look of you isn't a substance you're very well acquainted with." John mumbled through a mouthful of eggs.

"I eat!" Sherlock retorted indignantly.

"Not frequently enough." The doctor pointed out, gesturing to the other man's flat stomach with his fork.

The dominatrix crossed his arms and pouted slightly. John found this rather adorable, but if anyone asked, he would deny it.

"I don't like to eat, it slows down my performance." Sherlock said, looking away.

John frowned. Neither man had spoken about Sherlock's profession since the man arrived on John's doorstep the previous night, looking for all the world like death was snapping at his heels.

Sherlock returned John's mournful gaze with repentance. "Sorry," he said quietly. John sighed.

"Bill please." He called out to a rather pretty waitress, who acknowledged his request with a nod and a polite smile. John paid for his breakfast and Sherlock's coffee, and they exited the cafe in silence.

"What will you do now, Sherlock?" John asked as they walked along the street, the constant traffic of people jostling them on the pavement a welcome distraction from the awkward tension between the two men.

"I don't know." Sherlock said eventually. "As soon as word gets out that I left a client like that I can't go back to my work." He mused, staring at the cars which dawdled past in the choke of the London roads. "My reputation is ruined."

John stopped momentarily, reaching out and grasping Sherlock's hands in his, willing the other man to look at him. "Is that such a bad thing? You hated that job, you said so yourself. Why does it matter that you can't go back?"

Sherlock gave his hands a squeeze and a sad look. "Because it's the only thing I know how to do John. I'm useless without it."

"But you must have some other training, some qualifications?" The doctor prompted, keeping his grasp on one of Sherlock's hands as they began to walk again.

"I dropped out of school, there was nothing those people could teach me about life that I had not already established." Sherlock said bitterly. John closed his eyes.  _Think._

"What about your family, surely they tried to stop you? Could they offer you support now?" He asked incredulously.

The younger man looked wistful, as though caught in a distant memory. "My brother, Mycroft, runs a significant portion of the British Government. He's successful not because he strived to do well in school, but because he knows exactly how to manipulate people to do as he pleases." Sherlock paused momentarily, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "We're both rather good at that, you see."

John was about to reply, but at that moment Sherlock was knocked off his feet by a young woman hurrying past, her arms laden with books. The dominatrix toppled to the ground along with the stack of neatly arranged medical journals and weighty biographies.

"Oh gosh, I'm so sorry, are you alright?" She babbled helplessly as Sherlock picked himself up off the street and stooped to collect the quantities of literature which had scattered over the pavement.

"That's quite alright, I believe these are yours?" He said, handing the stack back to the apologetic woman, who took them wordlessly and smiled her thanks, hurrying off to some unknown destination.

"Bloody hell." John said as Sherlock took his arm for support as he limped a little on a twisted ankle.

"It's fine John, she was just rushing because she is late to Bart's medical school, her class started fifteen minutes ago but she left the house early because she had a row with her boyfriend, however her train was then delayed and she has run the last three blocks to catch the next scheduled bus. The young woman has also recently lost her father to testicular cancer, and is in the process of buying a sofa with her wages from the branch of Debenhams where she works on weekends. Her name is Sarah Sawyer _,_ and she is a Sagittarius."

Sherlock paused for breath, righting himself and carefully taking John's hand again. "If you believe in that sort of thing." He finished conclusively.

John just stared at him, admiration sparkling in his eyes. "Do you know her?" He asked, watching the other man shrug off his experience effortlessly as they continued to walk.

"Of course not, I merely observed." Sherlock said innocently. Why was John looking at him like that?  _Does he think I slept with her?_ Sherlock thought worriedly as his lover glared at him accusingly.

"Then how can you possibly...that was incredible, I can't believe you got all that from one look!"

Sherlock frowned; nobody had ever reacted in that way before. John was still staring at him.

He thought about all the times in the past he had shown people his special ability, how they had laughed at him, or gotten angry because they thought he had been spying on them. He remembered his mother shouting at him for revealing that his father was having an affair with the chimney sweep. It was true of course, although the many chimneys of Holmes Manor had never looked cleaner...

He remembered the time he spotted the cake crumbs on Mycroft's shirt, and how he had told him to 'piss off' when little Sherlock threatened to tell Mummy about his older brother skimping on his diet plan. He thought about Mummy telling Mycroft that he would never get a wife looking like a pork pie, and how his chubby sibling had cornered him afterwards and screamed at him, telling Sherlock that his gift was stupid; it was a trick...just a trick.

Sherlock lowered his gaze. "It's just a trick." He whispered.

John's heart sank, he tilted Sherlock's chin up with his finger, his eyes kind and gentle. "It's brilliant." He said, leaning in and kissing the other man softly on the lips.

Sherlock's heart swelled with pride and he closed his eyes. This is what it felt like then, to be loved.

John sprang apart from him suddenly, excitement and happiness written all over his features. "Of course!" he exclaimed suddenly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other impatiently. "Yes! It  _is_ brilliant!" John said, pulling Sherlock to him in a swift embrace.

"This could work, Sherlock, this could change everything!"

"John, slow down, what are you talking about?" Sherlock attempted to reason with the frantic ball of energy that had replaced John Watson.

"Uuuh, OK, do him, that guy there!" The doctor yelled gleefully, pointing at a middle-aged man in a suit who was leaning up against the side of a grubby building and talking animatedly on his phone.

"Do  _what_  John?" Sherlock said, watching as John tried to calm himself down by flapping his arms and hopping on the spot.

"Deduce him, Sherlock, do the thing!" The taller man frowned in his confusion but did what the other man asked.

"Late forties, married with two children, a boy and a girl...and a small dog, terrier, goes by the name of Spike. Used to be in a band when he was...fifteen, yes, strong upper arms, a golfer then, but for how long? Muscular build up says ten years, a dull man, with a limited tolerance for crowds, a hint of anxiety and claustrophobia too I bet-"

"Fantastic! Ok...that one there."

"Multiple needle marks on his forearm, ex cocaine addict, _but_ , recently got discharged from a reform centre, attempting to rebuild his life, he has a loving girlfriend and a good job, earns a good salary, saving up to buy a car, planning to start a family."

"Incredible! And her?"

"Single mother, divorced for two years, bad hair, confidence crisis judging by the frankly alarming shade of pink, and then of course there's the wallet she just stole from a restaurant where she was on a date with a very nice man whom she could see herself settling down with, but she needed the money now, no financial support from the ex-husband then. Her date should notice the wallet missing before long, and she needs to get home but her friend just cancelled on her and her phone just ran out of battery. Oh, look, a cab just stopped for her, that's nice. That is until he finds that she doesn't have enough money to pay for the fare, even with the stolen wallet, and he starts getting  _very_ angry..."

"Sherlock what are you doing?"

"Slipping her the money she needs. She is a single mother John, she's misguided and quite tragically stupid, but she doesn't deserve what's coming. The cab driver is a rapist, and he knows exactly how she can make up the rest of the fare..."

John said nothing for a long while, watching his lover smile at the confused woman discovering the ten pound note in her pocket as the cab drove off into the swarm of traffic.

"Come with me," John said, taking Sherlock's hand. "There's someone I'd like you to meet."

Scotland Yard was humming with activity, the officers and detectives firing off orders and collecting paperwork. Phones trilled in a constant irritating monotone in the background, and the large double doors swung on their hinges, suspended in a perpetual state of welcome as the staff streamed in and out of the station.

John and Sherlock wove their way through the crowd and out into the corridor which was lined with glass panels. The dominatrix looked around, gathering information as his eyes scanned the scene. He was still vaguely puzzled as to how John had managed to gain entrance to the throbbing heart of such a notorious police station. The doctor had merely had to smile at the receptionist before she let him through with Sherlock trailing behind.

John knocked on one of the doors, his body preventing Sherlock from seeing whose office they were intruding upon, but the tall man had a very good idea.

"Greg!" John said cheerfully as they were permitted entrance.

"John, oh my God, I didn't know you were in London!" replied a gravelly voice. Sherlock rounded the corner and came face to face with a rather dashing looking man with silver hair and a friendly smile. The man was shaking hands with John and grinning excitedly, his face lit up like a beacon. "I heard you were off somewhere getting shot at, what happened?" 'Greg' asked.

John shrugged with his uninjured shoulder. "I got shot." He said flatly. The other man cast his eyes down and frowned.

"Jeez, I'm sorry I didn't know." He murmured, meeting John's gaze apologetically.

"S'okay, it's not your fault." He replied with a weak looking smile. John hated how everyone treated him differently when they knew he was hurt, like they were afraid that by saying the wrong thing they would get him upset. The only thing that made John upset was that they thought he was a different person than before the war...maybe they were right. The only person who had ever treated him as an equal was Sherlock, and John was happy knowing that at least one person in this world would never want to change him.

Greg seemed to notice Sherlock for the first time, smiling pleasantly and stretching out his hand. "Detective Inspector Lestrade, pleased to meet you-" Sherlock took the hand and shook it politely.

"Sherlock Holmes," he replied. "Sorry about your wife."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John Watson, bromancer extraordinaire. Lock up your sons.


	12. Chapter 12

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade stared at the dominatrix with a humorous expression of shocked puzzlement besmirching his handsome features.

"How the hell-" The Inspector continued to gaze dazedly at the tall dark haired young man standing before him with his hands clasped formally behind his back, and a knowing smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

"It's a terrible shame, Inspector, although perhaps it may soften the blow a little were you to understand that the affair is in fact with a woman."

"That's not possible, that man, the P.E. teacher!" Lestrade spluttered helplessly.

"A cunning disguise I'm sure, capable of fooling any suspicious husband. Although I'm afraid you wife is well practised at the art of deception concerning your marriage."

The D.I. sat down at his desk heavily, a deep frown creasing his brow. John walked forwards and laid a tentative hand on his friend's shoulder.

"You alright Greg?" He asked with concern and a stern look at Sherlock, whose smug smile faded on his lips when John turned to him with those piercing eyes.

Eventually Lestrade gathered himself and looked up at Sherlock, who had retreated to the back of the small room like a kicked puppy.

"That was extraordinary," Lestrade ventured, ruffling his grey hair in distress. "Bloody insane, but kind of brilliant."

John grinned, noticing how apt that expression was to describe his lover.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in surprise, feeling unexpectedly happy and pleased with himself.

"What can I do for you Mr Holmes?" Lestrade asked, lacing his fingers together and resting his hands on the desk in a business-like manner.

"I was hoping you might have a position for him here Greg?" John interrupted. "You've seen what he can do, he's bloody marvellous! Would you consider it?" He asked with a hopeful smile.

The D.I. sighed, drawing a deep breath into his lungs before speaking. Sherlock, seeing that Lestrade was about to reject his services, swiftly interjected.

"Triple homicide, isn't it? Nasty business, terrible of mess. Well, I say mess...the victims weren't killed there were they? In the warehouse, I mean. No, they were brutally bludgeoned to death just outside a train station in...Camden Town? Yes, I believe so. Camden it is then, HOWEVER, the assailant was not caught on CCTV, all trace of fingerprints removed from the bodies...interesting. Writing on the walls in  _blood,_ now, that's a new one...height of the inscription indicates a woman precisely five foot four and three quarters, give or take, presuming she wrote at eye level, as is more commonly the case. It is, of course, most definitely a woman, the style of writing tells us that much. Now, the spacing of the footprints in the grass outside suggests a manner in her gait which lends itself to a person well acquainted with asserting authority, a manager of some form. From studying the evidence you have procured Detective, it is possible to understand that you are looking for a woman who is  _precisely_ five foot four and three quarter inches in height and works for a large company, possibly culinary although more likely retail, light blonde hair, revealing clothing, roughly twenty nine years of age, and possessing a rather fetching pair of red leather gloves."

Lestrade gaped at him. He looked at Sherlock, then back at John, who was grinning like a lunatic and gazing at the young man with such adoration in his eyes that the D.I. was left with no doubt as to their relationship.

"John, can I speak to you for a moment?" He managed shakily.

The doctor turned his dazzling smile to Lestrade and nodded slowly. The Detective stood and walked stiffly towards the door, John following obediently.

He shut the door behind him and turned to his friend, about to unleash the torrent of questions that were fighting for space in his brain, but paused as he saw the lost look John was giving the door as Sherlock stood with his back to them in the office.

"Oh God, you're shagging him aren't you?" Lestrade groaned. The doctor snapped out of his trance as his friend shook his head in frustration.

"What?" He said in confusion.

"You, him, I knew it." Lestrade rolled his eyes. "John Three-Continents Watson. Can't keep your hands off him can you?"

John managed a nervous laugh. "It's more than that," he said quietly.

The D.I. looked away. "I can tell." Then he met John's gaze with a smile. "You love him, don't you?" he said with a teasing grin.

John rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably "Sort of, yeah." His friend nodded, patting John on his good shoulder and turning back to the door of his office.

"Mr Holmes," he called "I believe we may have a job for you."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in question. "Is that so Inspector?"

"Looks like we need all the help we can get around here. What's your job title?" Lestrade asked, picking up a pen and sliding a plain notepad across the desk, preparing to take down details.

Sherlock froze. "Pardon?"

"What field do you specialize in? Forensics, detection, uh, blood splatter analysis? What?"

John looked at Sherlock awkwardly. Then he thought back to the moment before. You could practically see the light bulb ping above his head.

"Detective!" He blurted. Sherlock jumped at his outburst, fixing him with a quizzical gaze.

Sherlock thought about it for a moment, envisaging himself with one of those horrid little badges and an inflated ego. " _Consulting_  Detective," he corrected with a small smile.

John looked at him in confusion. Sherlock merely shrugged and lowered his gaze.

'Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective'

Yes, that would do nicely.

* * *

The couple exited the police station hand in hand. John beamed happily, and Sherlock allowed himself a pleased little smile. The tall man swept past the road where John was about to hail a cab, and tugged his lover into a dark alleyway between two large grey buildings.

"Sherlock what are you-"

"Shhhh, I just wanted to thank you properly." Sherlock replied, his voice deep and husky close to John's ear as he turned.

"No, Sherlock, not here" John said as firmly as he could with the other man's hot breath ghosting over his neck. Sherlock brought John round to face him abruptly, his bright blue eyes sorrowful for a moment.

"I just wanted to kiss you, John. That's all I ever really wanted." Sherlock said sadly, moving away a little. "Society dictates that it is still unacceptable for me to kiss you in public, despite what people think." John was struck by the depth of emotion concealed behind that cold, unfeeling mask Sherlock wore to protect himself from hurt. The man before him had real feelings, ones which could be injured by the slightest word or look. Sherlock had spent his entire adult life letting others take control of him and use him in ways which were uncomfortable and wrong. Somehow this would always be the one thing John loved more than anything about Sherlock, how damaged he was. As selfish as every instinct told him it was, John felt that their connection was born out of their shared torment, and that, had Sherlock not been mistreated, they would continue to be distant strangers. John would have been just another customer to Sherlock, and Sherlock would have been a sad, desperate attempt at regaining his youth to John, to make him feel something at last. He was glad that they had suffered. Had they not, they would never had found each other.

John leaned in and they kissed slowly and passionately. When they pulled apart, the doctor traced his thumb over Sherlock's full bottom lip and smiled. "So you just thought you'd go and invent yourself a job?" He murmured against the detective's cheek as they embraced.

Sherlock gave a throaty laugh. "Why not?"

 _Why not indeed._ John grinned against his lips as they kissed again.  _You brilliant, brilliant man._


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter, and I would just like to say thank you ever so much to everyone who has taken the time to comment, for the kudos and the bookmarks, for every bit of support and love I've gotten for this fic. It's was really fun to write, and the positive feedback has really built my confidence as a writer. So thank you, I hope you enjoyed it.

"What about this?"

"Chuck it."

There was a short pause while John threw the torn bed sheet into a black bin bag.

"And this?" He asked the man rummaging through boxes of junk on the other side of the bedroom. John stifled a chuckle as Sherlock turned around and raised an eyebrow at his revealing attire.

"Hmm, tempting as that is...chuck it." He said with a smile, looking away from the other man who stood in a comical action man pose, wearing a superhero cape and arse-less chaps.

John frowned. "Is that your final decision, Mr Holmes?" He purred, coming up behind Sherlock and placing his hands on the slender man's hips.

The ex-dominatrix straightened up and planted a kiss on his partner's lips, fingering the indulgent silk of the cape and letting his hands wander down to stroke over John's arse and give it an affectionate squeeze. "As delightful as that sounds, I'm afraid the idea would not seem as appealing to you if you knew exactly how those have been used..." Sherlock hinted darkly. John gave a barely suppressed shudder and tugged the cape off his shoulders, chucking it into the bin bag along with the chaps.

"Not to worry, I'm sure that we can find a use for some of this stuff." The doctor said mischievously, his eyes twinkling.

"Oh?" Sherlock replied, pulling John to him with one hand while reaching for one of his favourite props with the other. John's eyes widened considerably as the leather tip of a riding crop trailed teasingly along his calf. The smaller man swallowed and gave a little gasp of excitement when Sherlock pressed his leg between John's thighs.

"I think this-" he gestured to the stacks of junk littering the floor, "can wait a while, don't you?" John eyed the only clean area of the room, the now modest yet tastefully dressed bed.

"Oh God yes."

* * *

The two men surveyed the room, taking in the clear wardrobes and the now more homely and comfortable surroundings. Sherlock's bedroom had been re-decorated, the dark blood red bed linen and drapes replaced by a more sophisticated blue. The various 'tools' of Sherlock's trade had been discarded. Six cardboard boxes filled with a menagerie of leopard print thongs, whips, handcuffs, a rather fetching nurse's uniform, and items of a decidedly more intimate nature, stood sentinel by the front door awaiting their disposal.

The riding crop lay hopefully on the top of one of the boxes. John eyed it cautiously, looking around for his partner before picking up the object and running his fingers appreciatively along its length, feeling the smooth leather and revelling in the satisfying  _thwack_  as he cracked it against his palm absently, imagining all the things he could do with that riding crop, given the chance, and the gorgeous pale rump of a certain newly appointed Consulting Detective.

"John," the doctor jumped self-consciously, nervous of being caught with a whip in his hands by the man who knew exactly how to use it. Sherlock took the riding crop from him as John turned, stroking it with something almost akin to affection.

"I suppose we don't have to get rid of  _everything_..." He said with a sly wink as he strolled back to his bedroom with a seductive swing in his hips. John laughed when Sherlock stuck his head back around the doorframe, giving him a mischievous grin.

"Are you coming, doctor?" John all but sprinted his way to the bedroom. The cleaning out, he decided, was going to take a _very_  long time.

* * *

"Are you sure about this?" John asked as they sat before Sherlock's laptop, staring at his webpage. Were it not for this site, John would never have taken that final leap, never taken Sherlock up on his offer. The first meeting of these two men had depended on so many variables. John could have decided against going for a walk that day, Sherlock could have taken that second turning before he walked down that path which led him directly to the man he was destined to fall in love with. It is a startling concept to even begin to comprehend, that the love of your life, your soul mate, could never have found you, or ever, in fact, will find you in the future. In spite of all this, John still firmly believed that the universe would have found a way to throw them together no matter what happened. Sherlock believed the same, albeit in a quiet corner of his mind which was still vaguely frightened by the extent of the love he felt for this man, this other human. Some part of him still struggled to express this sentiment, but he was certain that there was no one else he would give everything for as he had done for John. That's the funny thing about soul mates.

Sherlock nodded his acquiescence, his finger hovering over the button on the laptop which would erase the last aspect of his former life. John took one last look at the pictures on the webpage which had caught his attention shortly after they had first met. It had led him to the one man who had changed his life forever. The pictures were just as delicious and captivating as the doctor remembered them, but he had the real thing now, sitting by his side. John hit the button.

Sherlock let out a heavy sigh and closed his eyes, like an unbearable weight had been lifted from his shoulders. "Thank you." He murmured. John smiled, resting a hand on Sherlock's thigh and squeezing gently. As the doctor stood to leave, the detective delved into the draw of the side table and straightened up with his hands clasped tightly behind his back, a giddy smile on his lips.

"John, I've been meaning to ask you something," he said, his voice wavering slightly in a fit of uncharacteristic nervousness. The other man looked at him expectantly.

"You are aware of how I feel about you, and I think that this is the only logical step for us to take, since you have completely transformed my life." Sherlock said, holding out his hand. "I was wondering if you might consider moving in with me?"

John gave a little huff of laughter, gazing around the small flat at the organized mess. He saw the violin, nestled in its case, the reams of sheet music scattered on the floor, the skull on the mantelpiece, the mugs and plates stacked by the sink, and the two vacant armchairs by the fireplace. Finally, John looked at the man in front of him, the brilliant, insane, handsome, terrifying, genius Consulting Detective, and he smiled.

Sherlock Holmes suddenly had his arms full of John Watson and he staggered backwards with a helpless cry of happiness as they embraced. "Yes, yes, of course." John was murmuring, holding Sherlock tighter than he had ever held anyone before, as though the very existence of humanity depended on this one compassionate gesture. The doctor was not a man particularly acquainted with physical contact such as hugs, but he shoved aside his masculine instincts easily to hold the man he loved.

John released his new flatmate and they kissed, closing his eyes and savouring the moment. When John opened them a small silver key was dangling in front of his face. "You might be needing this," Sherlock was saying as he laid the key carefully in John's open palm.

While the couple reflected on their sudden change in lifestyle, John eyed the stacks of boxes by the door. "This will be very nice, very nice indeed, as soon as we get all that junk cleared out." He pointed to the remnants of Sherlock's former life.

"Yes, I think so. Then you can move in at once!" The other man said excitedly.

Sherlock took John's hand and led him to the door of  _their_  flat. "I believe a celebration is in order, Doctor." He said, winking at John and grabbing his coat off the hook as they walked down the stairs.

On their way to the door the couple passed the now empty side room on the ground floor which looked decidedly lonely and sad.

"Ah yes, I have neglected to mention that Molly sent me a text this morning, she got the job." Sherlock informed the man by his side.

John nodded happily. "Good for her, I thought it would be difficult, seeing as she was working for you for so long." He said, bumping his shoulder against Sherlock's bicep companionably.

The taller man chucked, "Yes, as you can imagine, working for a male prostitute is not exactly a position suitable to display on her CV."

"Well, I'm sure St Bartholomew's has never had a finer mortician!" John declared with a grin. "Who knew she had all those qualifications?" He added with a hint of confusion.

"Yes," replied Sherlock, "it is a mystery as to why she chose to work for me, but people are infinitely puzzling beings."

John nodded in sincere agreement. "So what's going to happen to the room?" He asked curiously.

"My, or rather,  _our_ landlady Mrs Hudson has reclaimed it for her own use. I believe she intends to move back in downstairs. I think you will like her, she makes superb chocolate cake." Sherlock explained. The two men closed the door of 221B Baker Street and went out into the brilliant sunshine.

They took a right at the end of the road and crossed over into Regent's Park, walking aimlessly through the many lanes and tree lined paths which criss-crossed over one another sporadically. The detective brought them both a coffee and they sauntered through the open green space hand in hand, admiring the scenery.

When they turned down a stretch of the park they both recognised, John's breath caught in his throat. They sat on the same bench the doctor had chosen in what seemed a lifetime ago now, their hands joined like vices between them, the doctor and the consulting detective. When John looked up at his partner, he saw the same awe reflected in Sherlock's eyes. It seemed so long ago that their paths had crossed, and fate had thrown them together in such a reckless game of chance.

A few weeks ago, John Watson had been a lonely, broken man. He had a scar, he had a limp, and he had let them define him because he believed that there was nothing of substance or any trait worthy of consideration within him which he could offer the world besides this empty, ghostly exterior. On that distant day John Watson sought comfort in the arms of an equally lonely, broken man who sold his own body for sex. On that day, a relationship was born which would shape both their lives.

On that day, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes fell in love.

A lot had happened.

In Baker Street, bin men collected boxes of junk left outside flat 221B. As it was lifted into the truck, one box fell open, exposing the contents to privileged bystanders. Nobody said anything, but they were all secretly startled by the sheer amount of spandex.

In a dark little room somewhere just outside of central London, a disused crutch was gathering dust, its owner long since cured of his pain. On the table sat a loaded British Army Browning L9A1, polished and gleaming, ready to be taken in hand once more.

Sherlock jumped, his hand twitching into his coat pocket from where he had been stroking his thumb idly over John's knuckles. John watched as his partner pulled out his BlackBerry and glanced at it with an apologetic smile to the other man. His face lit up excitedly.

"It's Lestrade," Sherlock related. "I've been summoned!" He stood up and grinned, "My first case John! Are you coming?" John smiled, stretching up on his toes to kiss the consulting detective.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world." He whispered. They grinned at each other, and John took Sherlock's outstretched hand.

The two men ran laughing through the park, their coffee abandoned on the bench. "Hurry up John, the game is ON!" Sherlock called over his shoulder as he dragged the army doctor behind him into the next adventure.

And so that was how it was going to be, the lives of these two men,  _one big adventure_.

John's feet pounded the concrete and ragged breath tore through his lungs in joyous laughter as they ran on, faster and harder than either of them had ever run before.

Together, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson ran to their future which stretched before them, more infinite and vast than they could have ever imagined, greater than they had ever dared to dream...

This is where it all began. 

**THE END**

**Author's Note:**

> It would be great to hear some new comments about this fic if you have the time! Thank you x


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